The Gliding Hessian
by Johnny Crimson
Heaven makes a tired road
with fevered sheets
and a dragging load.
The gypsy miles I tread alone,
my head in bag,
hence the load.
The marching horizon
slows my pace,
a stranger passes without a face.
With ankles twisting in the wind
a dream of somewhere I've never been.
With each step I forever go
I ponder if this jacket
is fur or faux?
Yet my only thought from ages back
was who's head fit inside this sack?
So here I move,solid I glide
like describing a picture
of a headless hitchiker
in need of a ride.
Posted on 05/11/2011
Copyright © 2022 Johnny Crimson
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Alison McKenzie on 05/11/11 at 02:44 PM|
Very clever, bits of it tapping the truth to my own gypsy-ness. There is something comforting about acknowledging that part of myself, and this poem added to that.
|Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 05/11/11 at 08:02 PM|
Some really clever, lyrical lines to this. There's not even a word of wasted motion to be found. This moves us right through the images and word play. It has some great insight going for it.