Broken Biscuits

In my head’s a biscuit tin
I keep unfinished poems in
there’s one about a robin
on the rails
and then there’s epic sagas
of heroes bold and true
on fated quests
destined but to fail,
sometimes on scraps and scrapings
at the bottom of the tin
there’s little bits of songs
I never played
librettos of rainy afternoons
when I hadn’t better things to do
and there’s folded paper animals I made.
The lid is not the best of fits
it’s bent around the edge of it
the years have took their toll
it must be said
but as a little library
of all the thoughts that sculpted me
I wouldn’t swap the biscuit tin
that lives inside my head.

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