Saturday, 3 August 2013

Wandering poem

I'm lost, again
I don't know if I was ever found
Wandering this way and that, 
Listening to my own feet on the ground
If I wandered off this cliff would it matter,
If I fell all the way down?
If I tilt upon the edge, no one is here to see
No one would cry out, nobody would stop me
And when would my body be found?
Some weeks after winter has passed
When the ground is softer and the days last
Then they would see a crumpled me
And people will curse and sigh
Poor person wandered off the edge, 
I wonder why? I wonder why. 
If I wandered off the edge, would I be able to fly?
Such a gift; the gift of flight, how I long to fly
But if I fall to the bottom, how long will it take me to die? 

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