Sunday
By mileshigh
In the majesty of Sundays, mourning. I am thinking back of days. When all those things misunderstood, Were as actors, playing for me. Climbing through logic, In search of hard truths. So now as I sort, back through thoughts passed. The lessons learned, and those that were taught. I praise you for making a man, unafraid. To dream of angels, while standing in ghettos. To think of earthworms, while walking on clouds. And in this break, between here and the next. I need you to know, that of all the things unsaid. I have become. Written March 3rd, 2002 © on Mar 03 2002 04:25 AM PST 18 • 0 • 12
AI analysis available. Enable JavaScript to interact.
About this line
"In the majesty of Sundays, mourning...."