The Little And Upwright Phone

By Plantard Dacull

Whose phone is that? I think I know.
Its owner is quite sad though.
It really is a tale of woe,
I watch her frown. I cry hello.

She gives her phone a shake,
And sobs until the tears make.
The only other sound’s the break,
Of distant waves and birds awake.

The phone is little, upwright and deep,
But she has promises to keep,
Until then she shall not sleep.
She lies in bed with ducts that weep.

She rises from her bitter bed,
With thoughts of sadness in her head,
She idolises being dead.
Facing the day with never ending dread

This Poem Features In:

Browse Collections By Category

Select from our entire catalogue of poetry collections: