outside
where the wind speaks
of life and death,
the air is not
a stale conditioned
twisted static
[a black-box, cornered
piece of plastic]
outside
magpies halt for no man
to decide their providence;
poems drift like seedpods
lightly carried
within length's reach.
inside
the burial tomb
no sunlight awaits;
no words to
prompt they germinate.
1 comments:
This is such an accurate word picture you have painted, I am thankful that I was able to spend so much of this day 'outside' which is why I appreciate the truth of the words
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