A Little Behind
Amongst this ligneous I don’t run around,
keep still where all the timber spars surround,
for if I move a little man falls down
hate filled from stilts I brought him to the ground.
Delusion was his watchword when up high,
deluded how the light would blind his eyes
but with his feet on grass the forest sees
and what a stilted mind defines as trees.
Copyright © Rick Howarth | Year Posted 2018
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