His day is but a true disguise; <br />a quiet Sunday, uninterrupted by the doorbell, <br />unchained by circumstance, freed from fashion, <br />in loneliness so deep he can’t explain, <br />almost crying because he can’t describe it., <br />waiting for the rain of the day which has yet to be. <br /> <br />He doesn’t have the nerve to speak, just gazes, <br />but with sufficient humility to make him proud; <br />thankful for the conversation that he grasps, <br />but fails to speak out loud; <br />the surroundings say everything that needs to: <br />dry rot’s concealed beneath his creaking boards. <br /> <br />Exploding words and questioned deeds - <br />to stretch his mind to comprehend this wealth? <br />He walks around outside to clear his head – <br /> <br />his cul-de-sac, come alive again. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />(Each line is stolen from a fellow poet here)<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lines-from-a-poet-s-inner-landscape/
