The Belgian Quarter

I like the morning
The path untrodden and the flag firmly furled
They clean the detritus of the night before
When I hid behind my hotel room door

The wilderland forged from clay and sand
Fresh foliage from a spray can
Gives up it's starting role as,
The bustle steals my quiet stroll

 

The Muffin Man

Apple Muffin
Apparently I'm the Muffin Man
I don't live on Drury Lane
But when faced with mounds of baked goods
I choose the muffin...again

Apparently I'm the Muffin Man
I'm not a fan of change
So when there are no muffins
It causes me some strain

I know that I'm the Muffin Man
And what you might not see
I find a comfort in consistency
That soothes anxiety.

Untitled Winter Verse

There's a harsh beauty in her
her fairer sister can never hope to possess.
It can't be replicated 
only worn in over time 
like a fine patina
Stews of rich red wine with 
musky herbs of depth and desire 
added slowly over time

A beauty that creeps on you 
like a dreich November fog
Settling the silence of a soft Sunday lie in.

Tea, toast and icy cuddles

(image by dark777fairy)