Socrates
Oh dear heart alive!
Will you free me from this circular prison?
The everlasting soul
Whimpers
In her corner with no hand to hold
All the motions resume
And the virtue of men remain unresolved
Wandering through the poet's art.
Green is still green under the sky's unfaltering blue.
If only her hands were smooth
Then life wouldn't be so cruel.
Copyright © Sawyer Wind | Year Posted 2013
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