Again, I Might Be Still
Arboreous green growing inside the fance
contrasting the gray of concrete walls,
scars, caught in childness;
Broken buckets disting the field rounded by
reminiscences in pieces like broken promises
useless like me around the pavement;
Why can't I learn from the forewoman?
lessons write within' our flooded pages;
A bird that was not taught how to swing
cannot high up the sea;
Again, I might be still when the shadow pain
would allow me against the will;
Three ways I can vare from it but none
covered the need like the forewoman will;
Skinny Birds at the sky adding ardour
balancing the paraview
Small as they are.. why can't I have such
weight, for not to burden at the forelady's
packs.
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