You, where have you been?
Have you not seen?
Have you not sensed?
Have you not felt?
Haven't you a clue?
Insensible, imprudent
your every move.
Spontaneous fabrication.
Your mind - lithe on the outside,
coarse on the inside.
Your hideous garment of pride,
rickety as the steps
that lead up to the old
deserted mansion.
You, from appearances, satisfied
in your shallow world.
Me, blissful in mine.
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somehow i believe you are writing about me
even if its not about me
thanks
and nice to read one of your poems or whatver it is :-) again
don worry!
sheesh :-)
i am touched
shut up!
are u in hybernation?
just been lazy.