The Imps

Tonight I walk through haunted groves
of fear, fury--finality;
I wear my warmest, bear my homeliest,
my feel-good kind of sweater;
Warm and homely--yet cold and lonely
my sweater and I am.
Impish breezes tickle my spine,--
footsteps quicker, cheeks grow wetter;
Nighttime voices mock me, "Must be better,
always better!"
"Stop!" I cry, "be gone, you fiends,
and leave me with my sweater."

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem