My poetic well upt and gone dry
Been twenty years passing dark down,
Keep peeking, mud bucket in eye
As time echoes life, spirals sound;
Cobwebs like crocheted kerchiefs,
Baracade parades of insects pleasure
White lilies bloom brings promise of grief,
And I, just a poet, in well's measure...
Darn wooden splinters again, my foe!
As my bucket chimes with rope in tune;
I descry, this well, my grave, I know
Those white lilies will bloom again soon.
Copyright © 2009