Bottom scrabbling
Weary, walking
sulking in the darkest corners of , what? I have no mind. No chill way to think at all. How am I here at all? Sometimes I hear a little wanderer and I think my children have come to find me. But how can they, they have no red scarf to cling to. No bread crumbs can lead them the crows have eaten them all. Beautiful ducks talk to the bottoms of the bosque and my children have lost their way. No, but there are no children, only me. Only me.
sulking in the darkest corners of , what? I have no mind. No chill way to think at all. How am I here at all? Sometimes I hear a little wanderer and I think my children have come to find me. But how can they, they have no red scarf to cling to. No bread crumbs can lead them the crows have eaten them all. Beautiful ducks talk to the bottoms of the bosque and my children have lost their way. No, but there are no children, only me. Only me.
posted by Echo @ 10:17 PM
1 Comments:
At 11:24 AM,
goatman said…
Your poems are often about half a bubble off level, as poetry should be -- looking askance to understand.
But a sad conveyance, this one.
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