They say in their slumber many things- great things <br />The size of nothing, <br />As the parks lay empty save for the preternatural <br />Light somehow discovered <br />By the geniuses of men- the swing sets of naked <br />Saddles waiting underneath <br />The cerulean gaze of churches, as you never <br />Come around, <br />Though your remain somewhere in the shoulders <br />Of hear, serving your drinks to <br />Boys and wolves- <br />Happy to be made of their contentment: <br />Well, I am sure that you will never be made of me.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/made-of-their-contentment/
