12th January 2026

 

isolation

a present from the dog

pink eye

© Rachel Green January 2026

Once again, thou covet of the warmth of spring;

for March when daffodils will show their yellow trim,

and there be touches of pure joy in every thing,

when dark and so cold winter winds are dim.

Yet thou do naught but fester in thy foetid smell

with fractured arm and left eye swollen red

and spin the tale how fortune's daughter fell,

and survived her trials to feast upon the dead.

And if thou paint thy pretty pictures there,

of hanging men upon a gallows left

think ye not that others might despair

of all the work obsession leaves bereft?

 Who doth thou think will care about your worth

 when thou doth finally depart this melting earth?

 

© Rachel Green January 2026