"storeys" poems
Today. I give up.
I got up to you,
I climbed
all the stairs of the seven storeys, until
I got there, where
I forsook
the costume and the mask,
the desire and the expectancy.
I left them all neatly folded at the door.
You will find them in the morning when
you will wake up and
you will leave sleepy for the office.
You probably won't put them into consideration.
You'll step over "i miss you",
over "i'd love to",
and you''ll hit the little"why" in its belly while
he slowly pulls your sleeve.
Don't worry,
I am better now.
I forgot about the dimples and the mole.
How does your voice sound?
Your eyes... are they green or brown?
That yellow t-shirt,
that plaid shirt...
I do not even care if
you will see the pile
waiting for you outside the door.
It's not like
you have not seen
my backpack every time
we met...
Today I give up.
Because
I am not made of concrete,
and that's how the breeze that
you carry with you
always
unbalances
me.
Because
I really know how to ride a bike and
I do not need training wheels.
Because
I am not afraid.
Because
I have courage.
And especially,
because
I have nothing to do here.
It's empty and deserted.
It's nothing.
Today I quit.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 9:05 AM UTC
deep below the wishing well,
in the tomb of wishful pennies,
live a team of diligent elves,
working day and night.
palms outstretched
they grab each cast away coin as it falls,
clutching them to their grimy chests in hunger.
they box them all up
and melt them down in flat sheets by the dozen
in factory fashion
in precision.
and they build from them tools and weapons;
whatever it is that they need.
their business is balanced on the backs of believers
who pour out their hearts to deaf coins
in scrunched eyes and in whispers
and a flick of their wrists to the darkness below.
perhaps if they knew the fate of their coins,
the industrial dungeon just storeys below
they might have spent their wishes on a shooting star instead,
destined to shatter through space.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
In the end, I never really climbed-
Them, they gave me panic attacks,
Razors loped my flesh and I ran in
Circles over a reverse nightmare,
Spiral staircase, awful storeys,
They all scooted to 1999.
I want to climb down my 1999, burn
And not be smolder in an ashtray.
I hope to fall asleep, away from
The city, away from my guava trees.
I have my history of walking,
Suddenly lost without postage stamps.
Will you take me to Ferris wheel?
Push me down the spiral staircase,
And sleep next to my 1999? Will you?
Will you take me to Ferris wheel?
Push me down the spiral staircase,
And sleep next to my 1999? Will you?
“Some other day”
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
PROCESSIONS that lack high stilts have nothing that
catches the eye.
What if my great-granddad had a pair that were
twenty foot high,
And mine were but fifteen foot, no modern Stalks
upon higher,
Some rogue of the world stole them to patch up a fence
or a fire.
Because piebald ponies, led bears, caged lions, ake
but poor shows,
Because children demand Daddy-long-legs upon This
timber toes,
Because women in the upper storeys demand a face at
the pane,
That patching old heels they may shriek, I take to
chisel and plane.
Malachi Stilt-Jack am I, whatever I learned has run wild,
From collar to collar, from stilt to stilt, from father to child.
All metaphor, Malachi, stilts and all. A barnacle goose
Far up in the stretches of night; night splits and the
dawn breaks loose;
I, through the terrible novelty of light, stalk on, stalk on;
Those great sea-horses bare their teeth and laugh at the dawn.
2.1k
You walked into my life
And strode over my feelings
Crushing
My heart
In every step
Throughout the path
You traversed
My blood marked your way
When you ran back
To the entrance
Fearing I would value you
A little too much
Scared that you would fall in love
A little too much
But Alas ain’t I the little girl?
Who had once sent a prayer up above
“Watch over him, Lord!”
And you struck me down with your words
And your actions so well constructed
And I?
Being the little girl as always
I didn’t even try
To chain you down with the fire of my love
What if it burned you down?
What then would be the remedy?
I didn’t even try
To drag you back
With snarles of seduction
Or little sweet nothings
I didn’t even try
To smoke your cigarette
And kiss your lips
To match your taste
I just watched you
Walking across
A patch of grassland
When you mistook my tears
To be
Mere dew drops
Dear darling friend of mine
Some day you will find
A star shining bright up in the sky
Beckoning you to love
Not to criticize
Dear darling love of mine
And that day you will realize
That the sparks of success raining down on you
Have already been paid for
With the life of a little girl
Who
Loved you a little too much
Who
Cared about you a little too much
Who
Let herself fall down thirty storeys
In loving memory
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
Windows into other lives.
Don't climb out;
You'll fall and die.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
Blinded was she; the young girl in the corner,
Quivering with fear and trauma.
There was gunfire, shouts and laughter,
whilst she hid in the corner,
Hoping to blend in the scene.
They opened the front door,
and her heart sank to the floor,
When she heard the orders,
And they noisily raided her scene.
There were only two storeys,
Made of cardboard and metal.
She head time for one last tear;
one last prayer
before the men barged into her room
and dragged her out of the house kicking and screaming
and shouted praise at each other, like she was some sort of trophy.
She took one last glance at her home
In the Congo: the **** capital.
She wished she had died in the explosion, like her family.
She let out one last scream of pain before she was hit across the head
With the barrel of a gun.
And that was the end of Rosa.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
Flames behind me
the smoke blinds me
the fall in front of me
don't wanna jump, not for the life of me.
We've all hit our expiration dates
Johnson dangling, entangled in a wire
he's 68, he was about to retire
a burnt child dreads the fire
and he's a lump of charcoal.
Up many storeys
the planes hit precisely.
News helicopters flying and taping
there's no escaping,
the fire's approaching.
I need to jump,
no slow death here.
Here we go,
Geronimo!
Fire caught me in my fall
God's doing his roll call
pain in my legs as the ground comes closer
I move quick, I cannot breathe, my lungs are squished
Did I tell my kids I love them?
No, but I wish.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
The national pride is nullified by the constant buzz of shores
being broken down and beaten with patrol boats
scouring the waves for lame boats carrying
malnourished passengers to a land of plenty.
With searchlights and stern rugged faces
blue uniformed and well fed, border patrol
scout out the weary travellers braving the high seas
and sharks to find a safe heaven in some hidden cove.
Pest control is serious business. Unlucky to be caught
and housed in centres with rationed food and worn clothes
herded into bare camps, often deported back
to home turf, the pest control cycle continues.
Take heed. A nation is built on pests., working hard, saving
every cent, running against the clock, against government agencies, starved and poor, defeated in justice, welfare,
community, papers, education and livelihood, slinking through
alleyways of paper networks, low paid, often beaten and bruised
packed in housing crates, stacked storeys high, nation building
begins at the journeys first step away from regimes too busy amassing wealth and wonder for themselves.
Nation builders are the pests you want. The pests you spend your money to keep away from your own backyard
for a vote for safety.
Pin up a country that did not grow without these
masses of refuge pests?
Not one.
Author Notes
Migrants are nation builders. Check it out.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 2:53 AM UTC
i was travelling two days ago
by coach
i was sat on the left
by the window
i looked out in transit
just gazing at the fields
as life was going by and little did i see
the usual countryside
flashing by each time the hedge was low
to see the cows and horses
grazing happily
but on one occasion i looked out
and was looking at the sky
just letting my mind go
at how peaceful it all was
a clear blue sky
few clouds high up
the sun coming and going
hiding behind the odd one
but as i looked out
i noticed this one cloud
so low it was
that i felt i could reach out
and touch it
white n billowy
no exact shape to it
just a cloud it was
but seeing it so low
i was amazed
just wondering why it was so low
how it could be
what kind of cloud it was
taking me back to georaphy
listening to the teacher
talking about different types of clouds
what they were n how they were called so
but still i couldnt remember
what it was called
but the fact was it just amazed me
sitting there was i
staring at this cloud
as we drove on by
just wondering in awe
thinking
reaching out and touching it
so low it was
that i could put my arm
through the window
n grab this cloud
n just feel it within my grasp
all it was was a simple cloud
but why even now do i think about it so
was it that peaceful to me
to just admire a cloud
that was so low i could touch it
for it was no more than a few storeys high
if had been an office tower there
then you would of walked up
through it
and above it
but who would or really noticed it
i noticed it
i lost myself in it
my mind wondering
just thinking about a cloud
how simple it is
that it was just there
like all the others
but so low it was
that i could of touched it
well thats how it felt to me
but to me that was all i noticed
to someone else they may not of seen
for who knows
as that moment has gone now
no cloud will ever be the same
for now i have that thought
that little clip of time n space
deep in my mind i hold that feeling
of how a simple cloud
made me feel
smile
happy
lost in thought
do we really take
such a simple thing in life
so granted that we dont notice
the inner beauty of its existence
well now you know my thought
how a single cloud
has made me feel
two days ago on a trip i made
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
The wind chilled the dead pigeons
the chimney had long been dormant,
if they had lain elsewhere
their beaks would carried the seeds of change,
yet the graded storeys were never condemned
as long as the Portland stone cladding
was not too evasive,
growls from under the porridge table
by the occasioned Ginger
spared these absurd notions
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 4:38 PM UTC
*Life was once an adventure
How beautiful it was to sail the ocean
to raise sails and battle waves
months at Sea awaiting the destination
Life was life when we took trains
and slowly made our way across
all kinds of terrains, viewing hills
illuminated by the Sun's rays
when we sat astride beautiful horses
and journeying was taking the reins
breathing hot and cold air and
feeding on the chocolate atmosphere
riding all night through moon's glow
it was joy taking the stairs
even if it was to the sixteenth floor
Writing letters with glamorous words
to the loved ones so far away
and sometimes having to wait years
to receive the dusty envelopes bearing
the breathtaking responses...
Life was something to look forward to
until we shunned ships for planes
where we shoot through the sky,
shunned Trains for these Taxis
which just fly, until we invented
elevators so people know not the
satisfaction of taking the stairs...
until we invented smart phones and
abandoned the beauty of letters
Life was fun but we pushed Horses
behind bars in parks and the zoos
after all those hoofs can't stand
the tarmac and there are no more
hills and Sunsets to see because
we've congested the skyline with
Storeys and scrappers
Then we judge the world unfair
yet we're the ones who don't care
The world was a paradise
during those good old days
until we became demons of change
and twisted a heaven into Hell...*
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
Lay down this night
Try not to fight
Night terrors shepherd a blighted terror insight
Get through this flashing fright and wake up with another mental lashing akin to febral crashing
Every kid's born with a light
And as kid the dreams gripped mine tight
Eye lids fall to sleep
Fadeing into shades blacker than black
Seamlessly brought back
Seeing the dark move, coming closer to kiss my cheek
Choking on fear I couldn't get out a peep
Eye lids peeled and tacked on the tourtures rack
Afraid to see my family die I'd cover my face with invisible hands
So much hell inside my brain
I'm forced to watch as my sister's would fall and smear wherever it lands
How can a kid see so much when he sleeps?
Waking up afraid I would go to school unaware it was real life
Feeling dissolved, broken, school was like chopping at a tree with a dull knife
Live my day and proceed to lay my head down
Pillows and blankets comfort but cannot support the torture when my heads bound
Tears in the eyes knowing the nightmares are always around
knowing I'm not crazy as I feel voices with no sound
At some point I accepted this is how I am
Night after night, horrid beings and terrible stories unfolded like the buckled spine that's scraped into a body bag after singing forty storeys to the ground
©anthonyasylum
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 12:49 PM UTC
China Cat
Standing on the mantel piece a black china cat,
Reminds me of sitting on nanas clippie mat.
She would tell us storeys of holidays by the sea,
Memories of the past the way it used to be.
Its funny how important little ornaments are to us,
Sparking different pictures of family omnibus.
We hand them down with love and care,
From grammar to mother for all to share.
Little trinkets collected as we grow old,
Cherished as if they were actually made of gold.
But even if they break or get lost along the way,
We will still have our memories of the happy day.
Jul 16, 2011
Jul 16, 2011 at 6:35 AM UTC
The beryl high land smoulders….
Where skinny manes of cloven trailing, cuff
the rake of jumbled scree,
a porous crux of timbered carol
matins from the mossy shrine
to urchin on the bluff and draft
in nooks of birch and bilberry.
On that high dais, Corvid tribals
potter on the reeks of gale.
Fell boatman of the troubled storeys
quarter in some sleet cabal
to throw their onyx gauntlet down
a slating arc of fallow sky.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
Beside and beyond
the tabernacle
(evangelistic not catholic)
was one of the biggest
bombsites to explore
more ruins to climb
more places
to hide and seek
and you showed Helen
around the place
finding a way through
the wooden hoardings
put up to keep kids out
and she stood
gaping around
and said
gosh isn’t it big
and to think
that people lived here
and maybe died here
and she clutched
her doll Battered Betty
in her arm protectingly
and you with your catapult
in the back pocket
of your jeans
showed her
into what was left
of a house
climbing the wooden stairs
one wall missing
blown away
the sky visible
through the hole
in the roof
and she in her flowered
washed out dress
climbed gingerly
behind you
talking about what
her mother might say
if she knew
saying how her mother
would wag her finger
at her and say
don’t go in those bombsites
they are dangerous
in one room
was a lopsided picture
still hanging
and there
in the wooden floor
a gaping hole
showing the cellar
two storeys below
she gripped your hand
with hers her other hand
clutching Betty
pressed tight
to her chest
and she said
what would
your mother say
if she knew
you were here?
she won’t
you said
what she don’t know
will do her good
less to worry about
and from the top room
of the house
you could see
the tabernacle
in the early morning sun
feel the sunlight
seeping through
on your face
and Helen said
she was scared
and could you go down
and so you went
back down the stairs
she gripping you tight
Betty hanging
by one hand to Helen
the smell of dust
and old tramp’s ***
and damp wood
and bricks
and London still there
despite old Hitler’s tricks
with bombs and fire
for you to wander
and explore
and taking Helen
carefully
went out the door.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 1:45 AM UTC
Jewelled lights
Inner city
Urban sunsets lookin' pretty
A Tower block rapunzel
hair spun from ghetto gold
15th storeys high
and the stories gettin' old
No knight is waiting
A million dreams are broken
the lift is out of order
Hope seems a foolish notion
Isolation is her captor
the city her disorder
***********************
Throwin' caution to the sky gods
She dresses in her armour
Advances down the stair well
Into inner city drama
On the 29 she takes a seat
looks straight ahead
Smile painted on.
The day she greets
***************************
At dusk again, in towered gloom
Moon illuminates her room
Stitching up torn, tired seams
of abandoned.
Long lost dreams.
Her heart.
Already healing
Urban warrior forever
One day she'll leave this jungle.
Maybe. Who knows.
Whatever.
May 14, 2020
May 14, 2020 at 7:53 AM UTC
What doe's it talk to majesty a bit MSN cry?
How fast download the roast mist a MSN go
beforehand he really his gossip?
How management days mist a MSN present beforehand he films hid like storeys?
ALOT
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 6:45 PM UTC
The city was laid like a wasteland
Like a rusting, crumbling sore,
Half of the houses were boarded up
Along a neglected shore,
The spirit had long gone out of it
That had made the city great,
Men fifty miles to the south of it
Were determining its fate.
Way up on the Presidential floor
Was a group of greedy men,
The czars of the old industrial core
Who had bled the town back then,
‘The real estate’s a disaster,’ said
A man who had been the Mayor,
‘The auto plants are a rusting heap,’
Said the man who held the Chair.
‘We’ve got more pensioners on the funds
Than workers in the plants,
There’s crime and violence in every street
And the Unions make demands.
So what’s the conclusion, gentlemen,
Do we give this plan its head?’
‘Whatever we do, it’s much too late,
The city’s as good as dead!’
And that’s how they came to build ‘The Tower’
To illuminate the sky,
‘There’s plenty of work for everyone
At a hundred storeys high!’
Nobody knew just what it did
Or what they were building for,
They only knew that they had a wage,
Could hold up their heads once more.
A central lift in The Tower went up
And down ten times a day,
Taking tools and materials
To restrict the Tower’s sway,
‘They say we’re going to go High-Tech
And they’re closing down the Plants,
The days of auto’s have gone for good
But they won’t tell us their plans.’
The Tower was built within the year
With a gaping hole up top,
A semi drove through the streets one day
And by The Tower, it stopped.
It carried a massive box-like thing
With a mass of flashing lights,
Was loaded into the lift, and sent
Up on its maiden flight.
They took it up and it crowned The Tower
While the people watched in awe,
There hadn’t been people in the streets
Like this since the Second War.
A massive counter was counting down
As the people stood and cheered,
‘I hope it’s not what I think it is,’
Said a man with a long, white beard.
While down in the Presidential Suite
Just fifty miles away,
A group of men put their sunnies on
And stood by the window bay,
‘Well how do you clear a festering slum,’
Said one, as he watched the clock,
While back at The Tower a sign lit up
And the word was ‘Ragnarok!’
David Lewis Paget
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
There must have been seven chimneys
In the great house on the hill,
I never actually counted them
While the house was standing still,
But the years had brought their own neglect
And the house was well run down,
By the time we pulled the place apart
For a new estate in town.
We couldn’t just use a wrecking ball
It was too immense for that,
When we took it brick by brick apart
We could build a hundred flats.
The chimneys were the hardest part
For the flues had twists and turns
As they rose up through three storeys with
Each hearth, soot black and burned.
It had been the home of Dukes and Earls
Back in Victoria’s day,
With gardeners, cooks and pantry maids,
All with a place to stay,
There were ***** and more for the gentlefolk
For the vicar and local squire,
And after the garden parties they would
Huddle, in front of the fire.
We chipped away at the chimney stacks
And gradually brought them down,
Brick by brick to the local tip
As red dust covered the ground,
But then a guy gave a sudden cry
During a working lull,
‘I think I see, what it seems to me,
The top of a human skull.’
The top of a human skull it was
Of a child, no more than six,
Jammed up tight in the chimney there
Imprisoned by old red bricks,
We managed to pry him loose at last
And lifted him from the flue,
But then the horror came home to us
For his legs were missing, too.
We saw the mangling hook they’d used
That lodged in one of his ribs,
That tore the body apart to clear
The chimney, for His Nibs,
The kid was lodged in a twisting flue
They knew that his case was dire,
And tried to make him climb up and through
By lighting a smoking fire.
We couldn’t tell if the sweep was dead
Or simply allowed to choke,
When someone ordered the fire lit
And sent up a cloud of smoke,
Perhaps he screamed as the smoke had streamed
And the fire burned, but slow,
He was just a sweep, his life was cheap
Compared to the guests below.
The little lad’s in the cemetery
He was laid with special care,
With everyone but nobility
Gathered to lay him there,
It’s a page at last from a cruel past
That we turned, but won’t forget,
Great wealth destroys our humanity,
Have we learned that lesson yet?
David Lewis Paget
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 4:43 AM UTC
Three storeys high, and I can't believe
You told a lie, and now it all seems
Like we were not, even buddies
But you were shocked with what I revealed
Was it necessary to put on a show
Did you have to tell the whole world
You couldn't have done it on accident
Instead when we made up, you stabbed me again
And they might never wanna be by me
And they might always wanna taunt me
And they might never care again
If I fall, from a cliff, and I'm hanging on
Walking in a place, barely remembering to save grace
It was just another dream, that I'm in
And why oh why, would you even try
Are you unhappy with me, tell me
It doesn't regard all these whispers behind faces
They're just faceless robots
Trying to tear my heart out and replace
All the courage I got
It's Tuesday, I gave what you want
And today, you said what you wanted
And tomorrow, I never thought of getting
A text from you saying
Why would you, ever wanna pick on me
When I'm just an innocent little boy
Are you bored, or is this a joke again
Oh my word, can't you grow up even
Take your last steps before you fall down
I was there when they gave you your crown
This might have been the last time
Coz everybody might have believed you, this time
Do you think I care, do you think I lost
The thing is that I don't, think that you won
I might have been scratched up when you said it
Scratched up when I heard them laugh at me
But I still got what I want
And I'm gonna be it
And I just wanted to help you
But you turned me down
And we put it past us
At least I thought we did
But you went and escaped the secret
You were lying to me when you said sorry
This might have been your own democracy
The one I don't believe in
Could've been your true blessing
Guess it was no denying
Just let it be...
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 12:50 AM UTC
There’s not much of anything I can recall
From the time that we lived in the lane,
Only the puddles of rainwater eddying
With the wind’s gusting refrain.
Pamela knew, she was older than me
So absorbed all the essence of fear,
And many a time when she’d panic and whine
I would cry out ‘There’s nobody here!’
The trees were too tall and they ruled overall
By keeping the house in their shade,
The garden was cold and the rocks would grow mould
From the damp, in the part that I played.
The wind would come sniffing around from the trees
And shiver the hairs on my spine,
And then in a wheeze like a voice in the breeze,
‘You shouldn’t be here, this is mine!’
Our parents were never around it would seem,
Our time was spent mostly alone,
It’s true that I grew to be sensitive, too,
To the visions and sounds of my own.
But Pamela, she became crazy with fear
At every strange creak in that house,
So then when she’d scream, I’d say, ‘It’s a dream,’
And place a cloth over her mouth.
The house was three storeys, we never went up
To check out the topmost floor,
They said it was storage, and not ours to forage
So kept a stout lock on the door,
But Pamela said she heard noises above,
Like somebody padding around,
It couldn’t have been, or they would have been seen
Between the third floor and the ground.
But out from the garden I’d often look up
To stare at the sole window pane,
The one that was muddy, or could it be ******
The colour was almost the same.
It was strange they insisted the stairway was locked
Could there be a grim secret to hide,
The darkest of murders, hidden away
And the storeroom above? Well, they lied!
Then Pamela said that she saw someone,
A shadow that fell on the pane,
Strange that the mud had continued in place
In spite of the seasonal rain.
Muddy or ****** it wouldn’t wash off
Though I stared and I stared, and I smiled,
The indistinct face that I saw staring back
Was the face of an evil child.
They say that the rest was over to me
Though I’ll never recall if it’s true,
It’s funny the things that you do in life
That you never thought you could do.
Pamela said I was quite the brat
But then Pamela’s such a liar,
All I recall is the face of a child
As the flames in the window grew higher.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
I tried not to build the wall up
It just kinda happened
The way a chick suddenly realises
It's stuck in an egg.
I tried not to love you
Convince myself it was just friendship
That I craved
So deeply it hurt.
I tried to pretend it didn't hurt me
To hear you talk of her
And then when you stopped
To see the oceans you cried.
I tried not to secretly
Cry every tear you shed
Tried not to drench my pillow
So that I could wring the water from it.
I tried to be a good child so that
I would go unnoticed, uncriticised
I tried to shield my sister from the anger
That spread through the house
I tried to pretend I liked it,
Sitting alone at every break.
I tried to pretend that I wasn't an
Empty shell.
And to all those of you who out there
Live life trying- forget it.
You can try, but the try will fail
Crumble down when you think it worked.
The wall will be built
The tears noticed
So will you be.
They won't be protected
You will just get depressed
Your shell will be cracked
Like a fresh laid egg onto a concrete floor
From ten storeys up.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
Till the day man goes to his eternal home,
Up and down this world he continues to roam
Frozen by the cold rain in the night
And warmed in a sunny day
Till the day air can no more seesaw in and out his lungs
He remains in the battlefield to make a way
A path his successors should find easier than he had
The bruises of a pathmaker must he incur because of a desirable future for his descendants he fights to secure
For the visionary man knows that
To make a better tomorrow
He must live like today is a borrow
A stuff not t spend on luxuries but to be invested in order to look back at and use as the foundation of his success storeys
Let the torn have her pound of flesh
Let the stones have their own next
As far as the skin is not taken away
The scars will only be the witness of the way
On and on he moves the success road till he sees that something improves
If our father's had remained in Babel till our days
The rest of the world would have been left a thick forest
A place crying to be discovered
So as life remains in the body of man
The task of getting the day's job done must he man
And that remains the plan
Mar 19, 2022
Mar 19, 2022 at 7:57 PM UTC