Rear View
Countless in colours, on display.
Grey matter turns, to white clay,
moulded by brow beaten pressure.
Being a faceless number in line
just to be seen, fleeting in stale time, promoting ones ego.
Wasting lifes days unexscapable
In media,s grasp, really we have to ask.
The Autumn leaves, rush towards us in their late Autumn flack.
The reat view mirror looms, impossible to go back. And the Only door is a Jar !
Copyright © John Lusardi | Year Posted 2023
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