WILLY WHITE HAPPY
And here it is - the shovel and the register, all
the things I've ever been. Sound, like a chalice,
is filled with treasure, and all these houses, in
a row, house nothing but dreams : everyman's
glowing with promise. The elm trees soar.
-
My back is against a wall; I look out over a
fair landscape, a horizon - somehow - of
moneyed bliss where men have fought and
died for position like this.
-
My own life, another story, tries brimming
with promise. My smile is fourteen feet
wide, and I am, truly, in another place.
And here it is - the shovel and the register, all
the things I've ever been. Sound, like a chalice,
is filled with treasure, and all these houses, in
a row, house nothing but dreams : everyman's
glowing with promise. The elm trees soar.
-
My back is against a wall; I look out over a
fair landscape, a horizon - somehow - of
moneyed bliss where men have fought and
died for position like this.
-
My own life, another story, tries brimming
with promise. My smile is fourteen feet
wide, and I am, truly, in another place.
No comments:
Post a Comment