A Sip At The Apple And Snake


Drawn to that old tavern by the harbour
By the whimsy of its swinging sign
A round or two … and then

A well honed long-sword
Sweetened with honey
Slips into a tasty place
Without a tasteful name

Unsure whose deserts though
And lightless, we stroll a while
Down by the river’s cracked mouth

Where it lies, drained and heedless
As if long exhausted of truths
Bleeding its leavings and residues
Back into a dried up and deserted sea

About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on March 13, 2013, in Poetry, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 7 Comments.

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