Sunday, February 27, 2011

Why I Don't Write Poetry 2011-2

I sit with my head in my hands
Life slipping by,
Not knowing where it will land.

The wind is blowing the dust
To regions yet unseen,
Upon my heart, a dagger is thrust.

The wounds are deep
Though the bleeding shallow,
Bandages wet and seep.

Upon each the time has come
Slowly, one by one.
The slow cadence of a bass drum.

The pain is eased, the light turns bright
Such is the seasons of life.
Such is why I fight.