Crafty.
Cowering,
Timorous little beast.
Oh, what a panic,
Running to the safe embrace of your mothers chest.
You need not to stray away so hasty with that argumentative chatter.
I would.
Try with my last breath,
To breathe in, your carbon.
With all those other murderous plough.
I am truly sorry about man's dominion.
All of ours natural social norms.
Which would never justifies our opinions.
Which makes you stare at me.
Me.
Your poor,
Earth born
Fellow mortal!
Though,
Not all the time.
Sometimes you may steal,
What you need,
but then.
Poor little beast,
you must live.
Maybe for some odd years.
Those years,
Forsake our decisions.
In twenty four hours I shall ask,
a small task
With the blessing.
If any blessings are left that is.
Never shall I again,
Forget the Home that you grew up in.
In ruin.
Its feeble structured walls.
The winds have shattered.
So we rebuild a new one,
Of coarse grass is greener,
And bleak December's winds are soon, coming
Both bitter and keen.
You saw the fields laid, bare and wasted.
And it's anything but cozy here,
beneath the blast.
You thought to dig a well.
Up in-till the crash.
The cruel plough passed.
That small heap of leaves.
Has cost you many, many, weary nights.
With not so much as a nibble to eat.
Now you are turned out.
Starving.
For all that trouble?
Without your house.
Or holdings.
To endure this winter's sleet, and trouble.
And let's not forget the floor, is frosted cold.
But little Mouse.
You are not alone.
In proving foresight.
And thought it may be in vain,
"The best laid schemes of mice and men, Tend to often awry, And leave us nothing but grief and pain,For promised joy!"
Still you are blessed,
compared to me.
No.
To you.
The present only touches you,
But oh!
My backward casting eyes,
protecting a dreary dream.
They are, ours aren't they?
Though I cannot see the future,
But I have come to peace with that.
So forward I shall go.
Even if it's to be alone,
A long hard walk, home.
What a story that would make.
By:
Lucas.R.Moya
