What Possesses The Snail?

What possesses the snail,
To think  - Oh well,
This side of the path is no good any more,
Convinced this endeavour,
Is ever so clever,
It ventures cross-tarmac like never before.

The plants look the same,
From whence this snail came,
When compared to presumed destination,
Are there snail mating grounds?
Was it kicked out of bounds?
Or on some kind of snail-tailored annual vacation?

I’m sure this behaviour,
Would trigger a waiver,
On insurance purchased for the shell on its back,
But the snail’s not concerned,
Because I’ve now learned,
That insurance is something that snails sorely lack.

Every reason seems bad,
For this journey so mad,
But this mollusc seems manically keener,
On making good time,
As it stubbornly slimes,
To the side where the grass is presumably greener.

Corona Loner

You can't be too careful,
When it comes to your health,
And that's why I've decided,
To stay by myself.

Others may gamble,
Or trust the Creator,
But I'll live by the mantra,
Of the Self-Isolater.

Yes, they may mock me,
And call me a loner,
But I'll have the last laugh,
When they've all got Corona.

Dating Myself

I asked myself out on a date,
And I accepted,
Which pleased me no end.
I thought I would say yes,
But one can never be sure.

It turns out we were similar,
Sharing interests and tastes,
We liked the same food,
Held matching political views.
In fact I began to wonder,
If I was just being agreeable,
In order to get me to like myself.

As the night wore on,
I came to realise,
The conversation, where it existed,
Was utterly predictable.
I had nothing to say,
That I had not already thought of myself.

Back at my front door,
It seemed I was not willing,
To simply say goodnight,
And I felt I had little option,
But to invite myself inside.

Of course we know how that ends,
The sex was average,
Nothing I'm not used to.
And I woke up next morning,
To find myself alone.

The Woman in Black

Blonde hair neatly tucked behind an ear,
Sunglasses perched atop her head,
Tall, elegant, lines of simplicity,
My inclination is to glance, and glance again.
I close my eyes and sigh,
For it is rude to stare,
And paint a portait in my head.
I construct her lines and smile,
From fragments of snatched glances,
A memory game, building phantoms,
From light across the room.
No words are exchanged with ghosts,
And I ponder; this picture in my mind,
Is it any more real,
Than the woman in black?
As she turns and walked away,
Receding from my world,
And fading in my heart.

How is your day?

Dying a slow death through inaction,
Whilst people talk about nothing,
Their own aggrandisement,
The only point of consequence.
Well, that and prickly time,
Scratching past like barbed black thorn,
Leaving infectious cuts behind,
Apart from that it's fine.

On The Trail

The pressure of being back on the trail,
Committed to this road again,
By my own pressure, desire, intent.
I know what I should do,
But the anxiety grabs me,
Shakes my neck,
Implores me to run away.
And if I give up, back down,
The pressure leaves, but after,
I feel defeated, an empty coward.
So before I give up,
I must remember that feeling,
And use it to act,
To speak,
For to know defeat by others,
Is better by far,
Than to defeat oneself.

Clean Break

The beautiful smell of you,
Has lingered all day in my bathroom,
Like a phantom,
That I wish would reappear.
The perfume of your body wash,
Rolls over me in waves,
And my mind misbehaves,
Every time I climb the stairs.
You conditioner conditioned me,
To think of a wet soapy hand,
In ways you wouldn't understand,
At least not from my mind.
Your shampoo has washed away, but...
I smell the memory that you left,
And like a sweet recurring theft,
I know again, that you are gone.