Wednesday 28 December 2016

poem 116

Cut and bleeding tramp,

lifting life, in a tattered bag.

numb and never comfortable.


Looking from down,

in brown thousand clothes,

with cold sealed to bone.


While Oxbridge crownes

their latest land owner, 

a child, they designed to be blind.


Looking, they never see down,

but so still their laugh,

for it to, was just gilded

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