Print
Like a sodden newspaper,
Trampled into mud,
Twisted and cushed into a blurred pudding.
Indistinct,
Areas of white,
So that the writing means nothing.
Did I also have meaning once?
Sliding through the earth with a purpose?
It's been so long I can't tell anymore.
March 2012
1 comment:
purpose - yes that essential ingredient to stir in that makes waking and getting up worthwhile or even possible. thank you for your continued posting.
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