When i began
I didn’t think i could.
Writing stories darkly.
I didn’t think I would be any good.
My way is the ways of singing.
Of snails, spiders and birds.
Of going through life looking for
a poetic perspective cultivating
a love of the absurd
But
My thoughts have been dark of late.
And late I go to bed.
After putting down my pen
blackness in my head,
I toss and turn and toss some more
and wake from dreams I have fled.
I have two more stories to write.
The darkest of the lot.
All is undone, the plot is revealed
ending in an entirely different plot.
I wonder as I wander through my
musings of dark writings.
I wonder will I ever be free of Atholl House
or has it consumed me?
