A day

drunk with the nectar of


weaves its way between

the years

to find itself at the flophouse

of night

to sleep and be seen

no more.


Will I be less

dead because I wrote this

poem or you more because

you read it

long years hence.


Poetry Ptuesday: Wonder by Maya Angelou
Tagged on:         

Share Your Questions & Insights.

%d bloggers like this: