poetry

Away from the desk. . .

and into my kitchen.

Where food and living was seen.

not eaten.

Always a motion with

all its trimmings.

It’s fat of my own land,

and my mind to shed all of

these cells may never cease

to be at ease.

Even If I see that heaven into a bed of rest.

I see none,

Only to hear.

 “… Yap… Blah… trash. . . This. . . That”

©O.a.M

®Artsydhude 97-19

™XhenoPagz

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