The sensitive man
He loves he, the grass in the meadow
He loves all the flowers that grow
And loves living life with a passion
And watching the whole of the show
He loves he the sun that is shining
And the moon when it lights the dark sky
And he loves that he’s here
With a mind pure and clear
Though one day he knows he must die.
He likes to live life in the middle
And flow like a river at ease
And all of the clouds in the heavens
Their patterns his heart do well please
As he walks him the trails in the morning
Sweet dreams going round in his head
And there be a theme worth a poem
So he goes home and writes it instead.
As all of the flowers do touch him
And the birds they do sing a new song
He sits here beneath his lounge window
And knows this is where he belongs
As he’s lost in the dance of the morning
Nothing else enters his mind
He leaves all the drama around him
For he be the sensitive kind.
4 July 2013 @ 1400hrs.