Stirred

What, within these “days,” which
Start at night, these hours of
Mindless toil, howling, frigid
Winter winds, and meager meals
Mined out of cans, would lead
A man to write a poem, but the
Sudden sight of you, so pale
And blonde, almost angelic,
Here, so out of place?



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 63 times
Written on 2013-12-30 at 11:54

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