Monday, December 12, 2016

The Thief

Gray was the day

And all within

Grass dying beneath yellow leaves

Thoughts hang in the mist

Like cartoon balloons

As I read them

They drift and they seek

They gather and touch

They say much too much

Strange gifts are they

Gathered such

Loose words all true

Yet others forget

Move away

As I breathe in the day

Have I lost all relief

Can I bring back the thief

Stolen thoughts

Tethered here

In their grief

Quiet the mist

The surface of each

The shapes and words

Float beneath

The lost

The absurd

What meaning

They serve

I fail to grasp

What they teach

© Tony Whitford 11/29/2016