As I write underneath the midnight clock,
Its tick tock strongly held upon the old oak mantle piece block,
Sandwiched between a bed rock table with twig let sticks scattered beneath my feet,
Made from that old oak&idylic sweet.
My hand nervously shakes the feathered pen slow, beginning to peruse all control as a master piece endeavours,
A fine wine so lip tip fruity and measured,
Oh but that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth,
His whiskey breath hanging on to a ginger rusty nail,
Gingerly he walks away,
She's heartbroken by his imp articular silence just a groan from a Dibley clown male.
Now there's a fly in his soup and cut ten doorstep loaves that crumbs the suit.
A hue and cry,
Sanctioned and absconded a meteor rock has landed,
Rock ash plumes fuels the late night skies,
Away from paradise she weeps and then she cries,
From her small cabin seat lost above the clouds staring down at the abyss land full of creeps and clouded pillow puff vales that slowly passes her way,
She stares on her motionless flight heralds.
She touches down on a threnody reminisces Brecon coffee hardy,
To which it blew a tear to her eye.
No more her engine seizes it breakers off,
Her demeanour has her tight fist heartbroken heart shattered into pieces of glass,
Her love is filled only in a half glass,
Still full of Love just one too many bruises causing frustration beneath her calm posterity,
Only someone somewhere can see what she can see,
Under that old oak&idylic sweet.
Torn on apologies no affection but long term miseries,
No lessons in love from the free bird that flew so high,
Selfish caters only for him who can't leave the past behind,
Can't communicate his problem and not keeping for keeps but misses her lovely radiant smile and Eire she speaks,
Her laugh as an acorn falls from the old oak and it hits him as a reminder of what's to come in such winter deep,
Autumn golden brown leaves falling, blowing in the wind to rest only on a large vacuum left devoid ed and unheard ed for him to weep and sweep.
When the wind ruffles thy feathers and the birds they do tweet,
I'll promise to keep this poem for you under that old oak&idylic sweet.
O'Reily@22062014