A poem by Sean McLaughlin


A grand door, a homely core,
Far from the madding crowd.
Cobble galore, a pure shore
Ruins, high and proud.

Yet high and proud, as the gowns go through,
Irrelevant seems old and new.
The foam fights still rage,
The past is saved, transcendent, immune to age.

From afar you stream, the females, straight dreams,
A little you read, in debauchery you’re a King!
In comfort you sit with exceeded means,
Far from Skye it seems.

Yet your future work will not be so kind
And soon to you will come death,
So here in this unparalleled realm
You must now seize this breath.


Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.