We who grab
the inner yarn and yawn
and spin the woolly words upon
the looming spindle wheel
with the colors
of all the fires
kindled
and all we feel
are cast aside
like clay for dirt
and made to beg
for food and shirt
and left to live
or even die
without a care
or reason why
We who dream
and persuade
with all the passion
we give away
Are yet ourselves
alone and poor
in spirit and truth
outside the door
(August 30th, 2017)
YOU ARE READING
Post Modern Mystic
PoetryPoetry fills a need of the human heart to express through the construction of artistic verse, the things that hide in its depths. This book of poetry is my attempt to reach those places and beyond. See if I do. Let me know if I reach you. This will...
