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.