What good does it do to complain?
The fates are as blind as these winter flies
Lying dead upon the sill.
This morning I swept up at least three,
Their vacant bodies still intact
Like cars abandoned on a roadside.
Simple as that-
Life a light touch,
A mere forty eight hour
In the light of a dirty window.
Still what meaning is there anyway?
Besides an overarching sense
That all matters must be tied together somehow,
That even now a spider is unpicking itself
From it’s station
And stepping silently this way.
No comments:
Post a Comment