38 Words Invented by Shakespeare Poem April 26th, 2015



The gloomy green-eyed count is noiseless. Gnarled

hands work in lustrous moonbeams, hide the bumps

with beached whale blankets, frugal choices bought

on sale. Now dawn, the wind elbows the night

with gusts that rant at worthless windows. Next,

he puts the label on his luggage, leaves

the bedroom, hurries by a bloodstained fixture

where he hobnobbed last night half undressed

from zany party scuffles. Tired from puking,

drugged, excitement dwindling, caked with mud,

he passes sleeping mountaineers and flees––

a jaded bandit, into radiance,

arousing naked barefaced girls who blush.

Kim King©2015


About k2king

Francophile, writer, poet, and mother of Samoyeds
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