Wish's
We are all places, barring
That one locality
Fulfillment-ripe, in reach of.
Wish's sunned; and lazy!
The soul of disenchantment;
And the bane of us all!
Haunted, from o'er the next hill
By its lone-sounding call.
Who is the phantom, but lives
His own true self not in!
For what's forced on its esteem
In facade's see-through grin.
Copyright © James Watkin | Year Posted 2021
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