Stan Petrovich (10/27/1950 / Fort Riley, KS)
Like a Wasteland
Nature is the cruelest thing,
Bringing dead flowers to a cemetary,
And sneezing as a ghost passes through.
I spent the night reading Keats
And have no one to share him with.
Loneliness is the hardest thing to stive for;
When I get there I cry with happiness
And careen with fear.
Comments about this poem (Like a Wasteland by Stan Petrovich )
People who read Stan Petrovich also read
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings