25 Jan

I lost the trail I was on
can I return, or is it gone?
must I blaze a newer one?
I run and run and run.

the ax-head fell into the swamp
because I strayed far from the camp
and now I see myself a tramp
the handle slipped my grip.

thorn trees gore me bloody red
black clouds break upon my head
a cardboard box is now my bed
I stink. I need a change.

I spin and spin, but backward go
I try to swim but sink below
a loser fills my tattered shoes
until I go back home.


Limericist, 2008/2021

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Posted by on January 25, 2021 in Poetry


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