The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling.
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.

-W.Shakespeare

Sunday, 24 November 2013

Last Call

There’s a hole in the wall
a tiny bar in a tiny town.

Stone oven, taps, and candle light-
Something for the hunger, the thirst
and the loneliness in the night.

Saw the prettiest little thing
          and tried to converse,
          in our small universe, 
over how loud the spirits did sing
         within.

Stayed out late, drinking in 
the beauty of the night-
         -Taps running dry 
         and the fire is dying out.

She’s got me by the look in her eye
and I don’t wanna say goodbye.

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