HELP ME
You can help me in my average
pain; weakness notwithstanding.
So high above me, only occasionally
now, do I see the white trail of a
crossing-high jet. Where in the
world would anyone be going?
-
Down below my face, the tired
grasses roll for Winter; bedraggled
and brown, they sog their sag of
greenery now for nothing as dying
ladybugs drop down and crawl away,
half wings extended and direction
all gone. Mad, mad world indeed.
No comments:
Post a Comment