Frank liked a fresh herring in the evenings,
served with chopped onions and pickles.
Wandering the streets through falling snow,
his melancholy heart soothed by piscine flesh;
Frank wondered what it would be like to fly,
soaring over mazed canals, arms wide,
each snowflake spiraling, drifting,
glinting in the moonlight,
melting on moistened tongue.
Perhaps this was as close as he’d ever get
to tasting the stars.
*Note: This poem was written for Trifecta’s Week Thirty-Nine Writing Challenge.
Also linking with dVerse~ Poets Pub’s OpenLinkNight~Week 58. Its my first time, eek!
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