The arrow will not past go,
in the willow or the snow,
where all who live to know
that life can be fast and slow.
The pace the race is not my face
I have no deciding factor erase
do the functions of a functional
person like myself I’m a disgrace.
Ever knowing I am not
haunted by the sly nights sky
is my pace I want to be an astronaut
so beauty you I can supply.
I want the Roses, Tulips and Iris
to slant your eye my humble gift
to you my sweet lullaby for Osiris
is a distinct instinct to think swift.
RMC 
Leave a comment