Present
poetic scribble by Bob Axell 2007

 

Mosquitoes fly
Under empty sky
To us they are nothing
To them dots you and I

Trees they wave
Slowly forth and back
Gently overlap
Without sound, rhyme or rap.

Birds they sing
And circle over our heads
Sing for the living
Unheard of the dead

Winds roughly whisper
Words we have unwritten
It plays with the surface
Of the worldly ribbon

Drops slowly fall
And drown hopes for all
Drops slowly sink
And hope yet rethinks

I am but a creation
Of normalization
I am but a creature
Of nature.