Haven’t felt alive
haven’t reached the endless skies
– mired in regret
and yet the sense is
that enormous press of
blue is but redress
for letting gloom
decide which way to wear my
scarcely fancied hide,
which way to tie a
non-existent tie, or doff
a hat to eminence;
harmony ensnared
in ochre dreamings waits where
I have yet to fly
© 2007-02-25, I.D. Carswell
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