Those pockets of silence,
Travel between them
A pilgrim seeking holy places,
Hands capable of violence
Yet at rest against themselves
When not at play on the territory of you,
But you sleep, I grind,
No one knows what it takes to be this,
How each day,
Is a battle with toothsome
Loathsome devils,
Some of whom look like old lovers,
But in the silence
They die at my hand
And so, to see me calm,
Amused rather than angered,
Is to frame me in the light of
Hidden victories,
My book Until She Sings is out now.
Ebook:
Until She Sings https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07XJRDND8/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_apa_i_e9pLDbMJNZQ4E
Paperback: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1692105566/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_apa_i_4akEDb3FTWNKR
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MB Blissett 