by on December 6, 2022 :: 0 comments

Frail is the nail
which can’t make me shriek,
the hail that pelts
my petals and speech,
the gale that rips
my roof and peace
for I shall know much better days.

Frail is the pen
whose ink has congealed,
the veil that shrouds
a veracious tale,
the spam that haunts
my fertile mail,
for bubbles will burst in the air.

editors note:

Almost no trouble to burst a bubble. Frail, indeed! – mh clay

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