Sometimes I come collecting cold corpses,
carving conversations long left for dead.
Picking putrid pieces of people I knew,
stitching, sewing some things they said.
My inspiration summons the lightning,
disturbing decayed defy death with my pen.
Weaving words with wounded memories,
making morbid monsters live once again.
Sometimes I fly with wings as a magpie,
swooping swift on something shiny I see.
Maybe big blue eyes or some sweet saying
tenderly told that was wonderful to me.
I will line up all my precious pieces,
fabricate fine fantasy to fold in the mix.
Peck my pen persistently upon the page
and see if something beautiful sticks.
Sometimes you may believe a line’s for you
or see someone who may share your name.
Even if you may not be exactly identical,
in essence you still suspect you’re the same.
Supposing I told you my words were about you,
as love or hate flows free from line to line,
would you really want to hear that truth,
or does labeling it pure fiction suit you fine?
Copyright © 2015 Philip Craddock. All rights reserved.