AFTER a round of inquiry,
descending into parody,
we drew our lots
for carrycots
and spoke, at last, with clarity:
WE'RE rich, as we were born to be:
this isn't cant or heresy,
it keeps us wrapped,
not stuck or trapped,
and so you can't embarrass me
ALONE, and with our fortune bare,
we choose this out of everywhere:
forget the rest,
for we're the best
and what is neither here, nor there,
AGAIN, is our great rectitude
like oil: buried, rich and crude --
the wind blows wild
on this child
swallowed in ineptitude
Like this:
Like Loading...
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.
View all posts by Beleaguered Servant
I really enjoyed this. Are we ever alone, never alone, or a varied mix? I shall have to ponder on that!