The yearly yield when life grew and prospered like yeast in heat A month of malnutrition in damp time like withered wheat Now
By Michael Lewis5 years ago in Poets
The race to bleed begun from the first day The thirst The wilderness The voice And the blunt blade The blade that aches at birth
Stray singular from Earth to mediocrity Basic will Fighting fortune and the ball and clasp The ankle bites The wrist roles
I'm dull and my old clothes are drenched I'm pale and my weeping skin is aged There's a final bounce for mystery There's a tribal dance that failed
I am growing old as each day groans Shown the bone breaks aches and thieves Steals youthful time when I was lost Stacks weight against pace and packs pressure on my calfs
