A tea bag, filled with grass,
an afternoon nap at night-- given and
re-packaged for tomorrow.
There are cobwebs on my window,
struck by dust and rain.
Each morning a bird sings, or screams--
how familiar, how alive.
At least its a wall,
no longer a question mark--
those are harder to scale.
Mole hills, mountains--
each a rotting jar of pickles,
each a rung on the wrong ladder.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment