I have a wooden cupboard
In which I keep glass jars
In which I store all my promises
Given and received
Broken and kept.
At times it’s a Heaven Sent village.
Often a Hellish prison.
Will my next deposit be an Irresistible Kiss
Or will it, rather, be a mere attempt to Chase the Moonlite, only to find it unavailable?
Even the finest of promises, like September Skies, can be deceptive.
I’ve so often followed the dulcet tones of a Serenade
Into a Bramble.