Riding The Gun Poem by Patience

Riding The Gun



Confused in their panic, ants from the nest,
drawn out of turncoats, blind or obsequious
That spring that you starved, bees from the hive,
suckling nectar, temperatures rise
Parched in the sun, milk of the goat,
riding the gun, now there is hope.

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Patience

Patience

Melbourne, Australia
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