Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

Laden Autumn here I stand
Worn of heart, and weak of hand:
Nought but rest seems good to me,
Speak the word that sets me free.

Autumn by William Morris

A portrait
of faces,
sentimental
lace, traits and
latent forays
unfortunate.

She swayed like
a continent.

He brayed with
fierce confidence.

They fell as
they tasted
the mist
in heaven’s hold.

‘Twined fingers
braced
and prayed
for impact.

“We’ve settled
for sentiment.”
There, I’ve said it.
Once taken
for granite,
we’ve morphed
into something meta.