Wander-ing

Poetry about life given, lived, reserved, presevered.

Advertisements
thought of clouds blown into shape over green meadows
 riveting in the maddening circle of white haze
 it never stops it never robs
the people that gaze at it

thought of ruffians hiding in the bushes of life
making sure that you and I will not go through life
without pain in it
- silvery hair slithers around fake bits

thinking of now and when the noon settles below
not realising how it's behind the sun
rating it's proud fun as dismissed strength
- bliss even if there's bitter

wandering 'round the life that we got 
jointless craving of another's done
doubting the facts of one's own bun
written in stone - nothing is gone

wondering about new things to come
mustering breath for when freedom will begun
wondering of how will irony become
clouds blow out of shape - will be pun.

Would love some feedback, so let me know what you thought of this poem in the comments below.

Thanks, Szabina @ Curiosity Corner Dublin