The Mind at Work (Poem)

Touch tender sense and sigh;

the last letters line the trail

left by your fingertip

on the edge of every thought

I left home without.

Training the mind and serving time

like an appetizer to each day

wondering why the stomach never fills

just renews

every moon

every noon.

Striped are the covers of others

while far-fetched angles laugh.

Enter sign, restart time,

justice is only as swift

as the blade that’s made of glass.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s