There is nothing
Like the wind
When it sweeps
You
Off your feet
The way
The walls
Stand purple
Filled
With dancing
Indians
The prickles
Of the pines
That walk
Across
Your back
Then
They tell
You
To go
Back
And start
Over
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
There is nothing
Like the wind
When it sweeps
You
Off your feet
The way
The walls
Stand purple
Filled
With dancing
Indians
The prickles
Of the pines
That walk
Across
Your back
Then
They tell
You
To go
Back
And start
Over
Went digging, and found an old scrap poem.
Request permission to use this poem