when the mean spirits come,
I serve them a chilled glass of wine, a creative
author; Robert Jordan
or a mean George R Martin,
Misery enjoys its own company.
On a bed soft as feather;
light as the dark recesses of a cave.
Lonely became a sister.
In the soft rushes of the waterfall
Inaptly captured by a rookie poet like me,
In the wild throes of imagination
gone splendidly amok,
Let a person walk in on me, singling me out
mistaking my quiet delight for loneliness
And I will feed it to the hungry anger
Of a Lioness deprived of her hunt.
Misery does enjoy its own company.
Ask me: it’s true!