Pink for me

I am not a goth
I don’t sigh to be a moth
Round the Whitby jet black fang mad flame
Round the well worn pub trek
Round again

There are those who hold penguin prints close
Who are haunted by their literary ghosts
Not me. I feel no need to shelve
And file what made me myself.

But then I open dusty pages
Rediscover from teen ages
Mouth the lines as they return
Rediscover that light that burns

Burns to dive deep in a story
Lose myself, enjoy the. Glory
Of a hideyhole and tea
Immersed but

I love books
They’re in my blood
Libraries. My neighbourhood.
Bernard shaw got it right.
Leave me here
Switch off the light
Feed on words
Lap up the lines
Why did I fear goth designs?


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