what am I sposed to say
to the ever diminishing day
to the clouds when they drift away
when the clocks dont rhyme that way
when the birds drean out of tune
and I can't find the broom
to sweep my heart of gloom
and all the news is doom
quick banish time
in a new old rhyme
with the silver and gold
in the ship's sweet hold
and the wind skips through
and the world is new
and I just sit
still a part of it
all Glory around
not a single sound
I dont have to say a thing.
mary angela douglas 24 december 2019
No comments:
Post a Comment