When I lay me down
to sleep will I
dream of the phantom
gone – the shadow
lost to time and thought
of a mountain aerie,
a glen secluded
deep in the echo
of veracity.
Waking I find
the echo besieged
by the putting of fibs
in the realm of art
with the finesse
of a joker’s wild –
bluster it out
on the precipice,
hang by the noodle
of a widow’s grief.
Anne's mediocre poetry 