Emily Winters                                                                                                                     

Bedhead

My poetry is not a passing mood:

The clouds they do not wilt away at the thought of changing phase,

The moon does not shut its eyes at the dream of dreamers dreaming.

My words are an affliction,

A beautiful disease,

A haunted work of fiction,

That may mind embraces, daring to seize.

The skies, they battle, running their flimsy swords through the heads of monsters,

Baking in the flames of flies as the dragons sneeze their world away…

                                            And years

And years

                                   And years

Pass,

The dying and the dead,

The lively and the led (on) –

And wouldn’t I love to love and love,

You,

Until the day I cease,

Yet should I shall,

I know I could never not,

Because my bedhead is claimed by words.