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How Strange (version two) (Free verse) by T.Becquerel II
I met a man once
He wanted my words
But didn't say it;
He yearned for them
Without knowing.
He made a noise,
Perhaps it was a cry,
Perhaps his
Typical emotional waterfall
Had made him
The messenger of Humanity.
So I wrote my words
On a piece of paper,
Folded it,
And began to hand it to him,
But his arm
Had already
Been wrenched
From his body.
Back to poem details
| xxx | 68.166.37.185 | 0 | June 12, 2005 1:53 PM PDT |
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