our bread and butter...
     the web of stars,
     the scatter of moons
     and orbiting planets.
the entire universe
harvested and crammed
into the metre,
of a poetic verse.

our bread and butter...
     harnessing the regal rays of the sun.
     inflating the fluff of quiet clouds.
     drinking up the winds of the weather.
     revering the magic in the flight of birds.
we fill our cups to the brim...
with fantastical dreams
and let spill
over parchment
the cornucopia of idealised words.

our bread and butter...
the incessant peeling and picking
on healing wounds.
of which we have learnt to savour...
     let bleed
     the willing blood...
     feed the seeds
     with impending flood.
nurture to fruition
thoughts stunted in discretion.
bring to light
thoughts hidden in the nether.

our bread and butter...
we dip...
the nibs,
of our word worn feathers.
let them sink,
shallow beneath the surface
to the sanctity of a familiar place.
     *casting our trials,
     and tribulations...
     pent up emotions,
     and what we think
     unto paper
     with the burn of
     everlasting ink.

O' man
What wouldst thou chooseth;
If in front of thee?

A dollar bill
With Ben Franklin's face;
Or thy family, and loved ones, whom it's thee they need.

O man'
What is it that satisfieth thee;
Thy material's, of muck, and greed?

O' man
O' man;
Tommorrow doth not alway's cometh.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

The water falls
on the wings
of the butterfly,
weighing her down,
dragging her down.
Fighting for flight,
she struggles.
Her vibrant colours
diluted, now
pale imitations.
With grim determination,
she shrugs it off
and flies higher
than before,
but her colours
are forever
muted.