Deep in my soul, where daemons prowl and crawl,
Fainting throb, a sunlight’s fallen thrall.
A smithered lad, who once so proudly stood,
Over his head, a sturdy, blackened hood.
Deep in my soul, few tonnes of ageing haul,
And specimens, of bitter, younger molls.
Somewhere above, a bluer, lighter good,
Floating among them ‘would’ and ‘maybe’ and ‘could’.
A nightingale song, deep in my soul,
Sip of ambrosia from a gold, frail bowl.
What would I have, maybe sometime, could do,
A soothing reminder of things not true.
[By Ferdinand Gorilla – July 2019]
And treat yourself to the movie below.
Gustaw Fit 