Inexplicable

There's nothing wrong, exactly. It's a lovely
Evening; nice to see the sun still out of bed
Past six o'clock. The ground is bare. The snow
Is gone. The air is cool, no longer frigid.
All in all, the world is pleasant. Why, then,
Am I sick of living, certain, as I bathe
In light, that everything is wrong?



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 34 times
Written on 2020-02-28 at 13:06

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