An Imperfect Race Poem by Joseph Williams
An Imperfect Race
Blood drips freely onto the morbid fields,
Dapple the mop onto the torn tide of trees,
Mystery's gentle but nothing has changed,
Weep for us, for we've never learned,
Thousands of years yet the tide never turned,
Emptiness of the poppy giving false hopes and dreams,
Everything we once were we will be again,
Tiptoe away, and rest for the day.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Topic(s) of this poem: human nature
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Poems By Joseph Owen Williams
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4/23/2024 11:26:23 AM # 1.0.0.1119
