ON MY WAY HOME

On my way home I met a man called Scottish, 

 His tartan kilt blew with the wind,

 his accent was recognisable as I noticed

 when he said “oi laddie” to me

 His bagpipes blew like a Viking horn.

On my home I met a girl called dancing,

 Her elegant body tip-toed like the rain,

 She seemed to glide across the stage

 like a flying squirrel on an winter day.

I met a boy called see-through, his body

 like predator Almost completely invisible

 except his outline which is slightly faded

 but yet still really hard to spot, only the elite will.

I met a woman called creep, her hands bony twigs,

 Her eyes darts in a winter night slowly stalking her pray,

 Her laugh daggers stabbing fear into anything in her path,

 Her hair is like a nest of cobwebs, messy and disgusting.

I met a military veteran named peace, who the only thing

 he honours is peace and the military his hand which was rough is now smooth, his cicatrix now healed, he did not yield once he wielded a shield and now seals  packaged wheels.

I met a duchess called posh, she walked like the horses

 would walk in the dressage her head pushed up high

 as if up in the sky, she never did cry as much as thy child.