After the Storm
When the storm passesyou take a walk
stalk your own footsteps.
Sometimes, even the bitterly cold
can't take a hold
and so, walking, talking is
the only choice.
Anger is futile,
and talks of penile colonies etc
the cronies joke about
shout, in wine fused passion,
lacking compassion
because who cares really.
The storm passed today,
I saw my anger through,
not resigned as such
just, consigned to accepting
that I do have a life
and, despite the contrary
It is worth something.
Poetry by Elle
Read 646 times
Written on 2010-03-30 at 21:58
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Teddy Donobauer |
Eli |
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by Elle Latest textsTwo Little CatsHills Not the End Cinders Oh perfect Day |
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