On a Spring Morning

Strange. I can't say that I feel it;
I merely remember the joy that
Arrived on such mornings: the
Cool, fragrant air, the sounds of
The birds, the soft early sunlight
And shadows of trees, a world
I eagerly sent myself through.
Now, I stand at a window with
Nothing but words, a husk of
A man who has nowhere to go,
And cannot feel anything other
Than sadness, who recollects
Being alive.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 88 times
Written on 2016-05-03 at 14:06

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