On sodden lawn
the canvas was torn
The cancer of ache
circulates your yawn
The wound bleeds
as the hurt recedes
Winds of preservation
absorb your needs
Every now and again
amongst the turmoil and pain
Appears a bow of beauty
that shelters the rain
As you dry
and start to cry
It seems reasonable
to shout out why
Amongst the grip of a spectrum so smooth
Will the grey clouds today finally move?
© Copyright 2016 Philip H20s. All rights reserved.
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