Poetry today,
with words
gone astray,
leaves me
to ponder,
that hill,
over yonder.
Where every
day I would
play, and
knew what
to say.
Words now
few, have
gone askew.
Wringing
hands-
what,
to do?
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Poetry today,
with words
gone astray,
leaves me
to ponder,
that hill,
over yonder.
Where every
day I would
play, and
knew what
to say.
Words now
few, have
gone askew.
Wringing
hands-
what,
to do?
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