17 June 2010

a form of art

you wake and read the message on your phone

which tells you something that is bitter cold

at edge of summer now you are not old

just middle-aged not in the best of tone

a little silly too inclined to moan

about the minor things yet not the gold

measure of what can now be truly told

you see the words a crab now eats her bone

the tale's been written on a rotting page

yet can be read by any human eye

we can't escape the poison nor the taint

nothing avails there is no use to rage

each comfortable answer is a lie

and yet she set the signal down in paint

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