It isn't you, but me that lies
Upon this broken stream of nouns
And pronouns in a useless verb --
Or little-used, since long ago --
Within the all that days comprise:
The halls, the doors, the woods, the towns,
The urban gray, the bright suburb,
The place where hidden mosses grow --
To you the windows, me the doors;
To you the typeface, me the scrawl --
The blame is mine; the world is yours.
For that's our place within
The all
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Tagged: Tags Poetry
Published by Beleaguered Servant
Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.
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