THE HIGH SKY

In the high sky
Where the air is weak
And full of strangers
Nothing lives for long 
Only gypsy-footed drifters
Come here on their way
To who knows where

And this place can only be reached
Without anchor or rudder
Nor even a moral compass
Riding on clouds of smoke
And it's such a long way down
Through falling-about laughter
And blood in the gutter
To the hungry crushing ground

         By Phil Roberts

Edit poem

0

00000