© Erik Brickman 2005
I am just a little fly
and you will understand why
when you start thinking of the days
that has flown hastily by.
It has been billions of years
and but the span of my own tears
is as a single, salty raindrop
in a storm-surge of ancient fears.
We keep on living when all is futile
with our hearts, broken in a pile
our souls keeps on striving
when all we taste is our own bile.
But I do not care - I do NOT cry
for what is this, and what am I
if not a trick, done by a fly!
Poetry by Erik Brickman
Read 1028 times
Written on 2005-10-18 at 22:15
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The Fly
I am just a little fly
and you will understand why
when you start thinking of the days
that has flown hastily by.
It has been billions of years
and but the span of my own tears
is as a single, salty raindrop
in a storm-surge of ancient fears.
We keep on living when all is futile
with our hearts, broken in a pile
our souls keeps on striving
when all we taste is our own bile.
But I do not care - I do NOT cry
for what is this, and what am I
if not a trick, done by a fly!
Poetry by Erik Brickman
Read 1028 times
Written on 2005-10-18 at 22:15
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
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