How like a child, in my prayers, am I.
When the thick, bored wall set around my doubts
Is breached by my heart’s simple cry:
“I want it, and I aint above a pout”.
How like an adult, when the day sets in,
To worry, and to pick at, my old scabs.
Better a fresh round of play to begin,
Than to take pride in my being a crab.
How like an artist, to never make art!
Just to twiddle with sweet words till I laugh,
To hope, in fun, there’s enough of a heart,
To beat doldrums and the devil at last.
How like this moment to hang in the air!
How great it is simply to be right here!
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1 comment:
Here and air do not rhyme!
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