stuck like plastic in the mesquite
it flutters and rattles but goes nowhere
just waves at the wind that put it there
morn and night it stays in place
like the memory of your once sweet face
do you go about your busy day
thinking of all that got away
escaped your clutches, ran and hid
never to come about again
all your fault for relaxing your grip
names seep slowly from your lips
all the claims that you are well
yet your message is what tells
that I creep across your mind
once a day or all the time
too late to play the fiddlers game
it that, in fact, was your true aim
Poetry by M.J.B. is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License
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