You’re quaking privately like aspen,
your wings aquiver from the chill.
The concrete, grey and bleak, is barren,
the air above you, dead and thin.
Your limbs, like those of trees, are trembling,
as if igniting airy kindling.
Your body’s twisting to and fro,
as if escaping from the cold.
There isn’t joy, but bitter coldness;
there is no pity from the breeze -
there’s only its brutality –
And yet there’s my benevolence:
I see you scrambling down the wall;
I place you in the corner’s thrall.
Kid, how do you do that?
ReplyDeleteBut poetry is unfruitful prayer
Only wild shoots of pity there.
Where the worldly wise and rich take over,
The mundane problems of the lower.
Guess I'm just a whizz kid! :P
ReplyDelete