A t**d, GildedA Poem by Stephen Norton
You aim for everest
With only the skill to cross a hill You wait for gold When silver is handed to you You c**k your head, bewildered Offended I'd reach out to you A corpse sitting quietly Ready to decay Delay, postpone salutations Till a ring would have no place to hang Keep waiting on prince charming No one wants the farmer Every peasant girl is a princess And every man is a pauper © 2015 Stephen Norton |
Stats
93 Views
1 Review Added on November 28, 2015 Last Updated on November 28, 2015 Author
|