Posted by Atticus on October 28, 2005, at 8:57:39
Child with a shredded red balloon,
Hears an apocalyptic tune,
Learns what life’s like a bit too soon,
That he’s heading for dreams in ruins,
He’ll never dance upon the moon,
On his tongue there’s no silver spoon,
Hard truths cloud Sunday afternoon,
He wobbles as if about to swoon,
Pictures his long trek to his tomb,
Pines for the comfort of the womb,
Leaves circles of footprints in the dunes,
Scores numbing drugs from clubland goons,
His days and nights are roughly hewn,
He never feels the sun in June,
Appeals to heaven for a boon,
God’s out to lunch, he left at noon,
Watches bruised skies turn maroon,
His thoughts on asphalt, lying strewn.
poster:Atticus
thread:572655
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20051022/msgs/572655.html