Captive, Clover


Out in the cold

and biting sorrow

I took a stroll.

I paid my toll and crossed the bridge

into tomorrow.

A lonely toll it was to pay,

to leave that place

in yesterday.

This odd old bridge,

somehow I only

could cross one way.


I saw the lights

and heavy din

which liars set

their stories in.

I saw the lands of fabled story,

each uttered verse of able glory.

I bled and shuddered.

Frantic, I fled.


Each epic verse, romantic pome,

and spoken curse or writ semantic,

felt merely sad,

threatened to drive me nearly mad

with tortured longing,

not for to roam,

but for my home.


And so I sit here where you found me,

beleaguered captive of the clover grown around me,

never again the eager rover,

sitting at the bridge which I can never cross back over.


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