I tend to think poems are a bit pointless except as a form of expression for the writer, often voicing things they otherwise cannot. I don’t say that to degrade their value or beauty, mind, and I am certainly no poet! When I was younger, writing poetry was solely a form of catharsis, vomiting out painful words in my teenage angst to allow me to deal with life. There was also something about twisting and grafting together words that were beautiful in form, into sentences laced with pain and other meanings. This poem was a bit of a strange one, an anomaly. Like cakes, onions, or ogres, this poem has layers.

And for you, the reader, of course!

The Perilous slumber of day. J R Manawa.

One night I met a man a-walking
Upon a lost and lonely road
We got around to talking,
And I agreed to share his load.

The woods in which I found him strolling
Were a most enchanting place
Hidden behind the hills a-rolling
Unknown to most the human race.

He was a beggar through and through
But a king I saw behind his eyes
And the truth, if only he knew
Was indeed his greatest disguise.

For he tried to hide from me
But I saw through his mask
A great king was he chose to be
But first must complete this task.

And what be that? I asked.
For you to tread alone these perilous paths?

T’was a secret, should I care to know
And though he beckoned, I let him on his way
Down darker paths where I will not go
While I turn, instead, to the dull of day.g