Strung Poem by Madrason .

The last thread on a swing
had fallen down
and knows
it won't sing
I frown
dead
is the only clown
trying to deny
and moves on by
why do we have to
repair torn stitches
why are we born
or are we all just
switches forlorn
between a frail begin
-nig and uncertain ends
like strands waiting
to be used
or demanded
summoned
by the seasons
by tempered
devils or gods
or them fools
without rules;
Why are we binding
winding each-other
up........
to get stronger
.M