Tired and Frail

All these pretty little words may never be seen

By anyone else’s eyes besides me

And I’m coming to terms with the vast, open dream

Where echoes are lost and eyes are unclean

 

My eyes have been unclean for some time

When I could no longer eat up my rhymes

Even if polite, with a fork and a knife

Maybe because I break the rules for a line

 

Or two, or three, or four, or five

I just couldn’t bear to do more than survive

The world once was a lovely beehive

But milk and honey flows where eyes are alive

 

And as I’ve said once, my eyes are ill

And the din of the market is far too shrill

And the bard is disregarded despite her skill

And these words are worn out; they’re tired and frail

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