I don't consider myself a poet and I've never played one on TV. I've never even tried to publish any of my poetry. But now and then I like to share one that I've written. So, if you're interested, here you go. I wrote this one in the Bat Cave one evening when I was feeling introspective and angsty.
Without
In pliant skins and resilient bones,
Spending laughter and breath,
Having plenty in store:
Talk spilled free from our willing lips
upon Formica and down our legs.
We nearly drowned in
our confessional wading pool
that was never so deep
as we thought till we stood.
For all of it:
our deceptive youth,
decadent decay,
choices of killers, lovers,
prey for our souls,
for whatever we became:
at summer’s cruel close
I miss you tonight.
While shifting clouds violet the twilight
sky,
the world draws shut.
And we are left without.
(Gerard Collins)
