On foot, I hobbled around my life,
Shackled and incompetent,
But, in a car, pointed away from town,
I flew, free, an arrow released
From the bow, until descending,
Slowed, I cursed gravity's rainbow,
Humanity's inane necessities,
The lack of miracles for me,
Zacchaeus in a sycamore tree.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.