My Patience

by on April 2, 2015 :: 0 comments

My patience is a gibbet
Around it my neighbours stroll
And whisper keeping their eyes on me.

The cognitive forms of my desire
Indulge my clay feet;
Though I sit quietly on a stool.

Then they go back to the field
And bind the paddy sheaves
For interpreting history.

I throw my laughter high
To the meridian
And tease their knives.

editors note:

They can’t cut what they can’t reach. Hang high! – mh clay

Leave a Reply