and using both of your hands
it's a losing cause you know
against the shifting sands
like a dying man's thirst
as you race against the clock
tryin to figure it out
and why the thoughts don't stop
you should have brought a shovel
and a hat for the desert heat
a thermos with some water
replacing sweat excreted
when did I have it last?
I thought I buried it there
no answer to your questions
as you labor with despair
you reach into your pocket
for a kerchief to wipe the grime
and there you find the truth
in your back pocket this whole time
Poetry by M.J.B. is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
2 comments:
does it, or does it not figure? It does. Cute poem
nice yarn!
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