Alone on a Hill Top
All alone on a hill top,
Somewhere under a billion stars,
Trying to comprehend,
What does it all mean?
Feeling so insecure,
Like two of me here,
Arguing at my interpretations,
Of this mystery called existence.
A yellow moon rises slowly,
From behind flickering clouds,
They are flecked with a red tinge,
Moved slowly by the wind,
The hint of the light in this darkness,
A hint of the truth in their lies.
Michael Wride's Other Poems
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