The thunderstorm season, with its usual titillations
and occasional remarks on lost virginity, had begun
with a rumbling on the windowsill and a heavenly groan
that woke him in the morning to a fundamental question:
Can one read the Great Romantics in sweatpants
or the Modernists in a tailcoat? Apparently,
even atheists like Mr Honk have their grave Sunday
dilemmas.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
There’s nothing like a rainy morning,
after long days of sunshine,
to convince you that there’s a carrying power
somewhere out there that keeps the balance
until it pours to the point of flooding,
making you realise that it’s all just a numbers racket.
That’s where you are truly wrong,
because even a wicked scheme assumes a will
where there is none—but you won’t hear that
from a bookie.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 