It is he who learns it all by rote
But cannot fathom where it goes
Who bitterly makes us fret to quote
And leads us all by hair and nose
He mumbles softly to himself
His contradictions plain to see
They're dragged down from some upper shelf
Invisible to mere you and me
The painting's beauty's lost to him
He's floundering, drowning in a sea
Of misplaced anger, with all vim
He makes up for inadequacy
[in answer to part i - a resounding "no" :)]
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
-
for fourteen years i wished my father dead at the age of eighteen i buried him it would take another six years to be rid of his physica...
-
the sun shines brightly cutting through the haze into tight corners of the post-atomic daze the concrete alley floor, with its broken flow...
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.