Between Time
The world is awash
With breathless colours
Speaking chaos
To the hurried self.
This is life.
Ordained by others.
Orwell's regiments
Marching, grey and cold.
And then it appears,
By repentant chance.
An idle view
Of something free.
Like a child,
Brimming with simplicity.
A moment in harmony
With the precious, privy self.
The world is awash
With breathless colours
Speaking chaos
To the hurried self.
This is life.
Ordained by others.
Orwell's regiments
Marching, grey and cold.
And then it appears,
By repentant chance.
An idle view
Of something free.
Like a child,
Brimming with simplicity.
A moment in harmony
With the precious, privy self.
No comments:
Post a Comment