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thought of clouds blown into shape over green meadows riveting in the maddening circle of white haze it never stops it never robs the people that gaze at it thought of ruffians hiding in the bushes of life making sure that you and I will not go through life without pain in it - silvery hair slithers around fake bits thinking of now and when the noon settles below not realising how it's behind the sun rating it's proud fun as dismissed strength - bliss even if there's bitter wandering 'round the life that we got jointless craving of another's done doubting the facts of one's own bun written in stone - nothing is gone wondering about new things to come mustering breath for when freedom will begun wondering of how will irony become clouds blow out of shape - will be pun.
Would love some feedback, so let me know what you thought of this poem in the comments below.
Thanks, Szabina @ Curiosity Corner Dublin
