Flies - Gord - Aspoet
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Gord

2022-08-22 06:51 am
I can't fly, I buy a plane, afraid,
Is it I, or the world that changed?
Doing, but why? Moon in the sky,
The music has died away:
Civilized, civil eyes describe,
My cymbals, rides and chains.
Time changes, I stay behind, afraid,
I can't fly, I can't buy a plane,
Or move to a space in my mind,
Tiny place, stimuli, to hide my pain.
Like shrines to a saint, myself,
I can overprice, play faces like chess,
Trite, then replace with tech.
In my camp by the lake,
Water arrests the trees.
Wolf, that tames itself,
Realizes little of anyone else,
Sees no bigger dreams,
Eats the best, but what for me?

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