Short poems

Twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes.
3rd July 2018

There’s twenty minutes until the sky’s the limit.
until we pretend we’re not here again,
Listening to dribbling, drabbling men all bawling how it was always them.
A war they never lived.
A goal they never scored.
A life they never lived.
A girl they all adored.
Her name was Grace to all men because it fit perfectly, like they desired.
Whatever pose she chose they perspired.
She reaped what they sewed.
No love, no place where babies grow.
Just Grace.
Painful and slow.
Here as one naked completely.
They never knew her but they loved her discreetly.

© G.P Williamson 2018


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