Here we stand, run, walk, talk...
Some slouching, paralyzed,
Scarcely breathing...
Others, wining every race,
Perfect faces, faultless grace,
And warm places to lay sleepy heads.
Food for the mind, the daily grind,
And for what, a slice of bread?
A drip of water on a parched tongue?
The haves feast on the sublimes
Using other creeds, as their toys...
Scenarios of the creators virus
Dance like dust-mites around the iris...
And like fools we pray for miracles



mandie


6 old applause
