In my sleep,
digging and scratching.
Mosquitoes come and go.
always full and happy.
The wind’s tongue is vicious,
tired of the poets questions.
Eyes are covered by clouds.
And the sun sets on another
promiseless day.
The high window
In my sleep,
digging and scratching.
Mosquitoes come and go.
always full and happy.
The wind’s tongue is vicious,
tired of the poets questions.
Eyes are covered by clouds.
And the sun sets on another
promiseless day.
A Wandering Poet 