RedRavenPoems

That which is golden does not always glimmer

Nor do words we speak have to rhyme

But they tend to do so from time to time.

That made of iron may someday rust

Just as your bones will become one day dust

As all in the end surely must

Even if it feels as if it’s not just.

Sometimes the mood stays light and playful

At others it creeps steadily into the dark

Slips up behind and rips out your heart.

It can be peaceful and quite neatly in order

Or made of pure chaos and disarray

Either way it’s fun I think to play

Would you not see it this way?

This scrambling poem that’s jumps here and there

Confusing to read, confusing to write

It’s a glimpse of madness within the night.

I find it ever such a delight.