Dreams for a heavy soul

Frolicking I wish I were

until the end of time.

Instead here I lay

head-high in muck and grime.

 

A song I hope will stir

these limbs of lead,

ere my heart deny

the volition of my head.

 

How does a man become a boy

and fist a pile of hay

skip in a field of blooming flowers

or whistle to the jay.

 

The shovel lay in wait

and I must surely pay.

 

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s