Sticks and bones, and dislocated homes.And parasites, and insights, And just let me make it to the mic.
And you will see, There is a real mystery, To life, to love, to longevity.
The poem above was written during recess, at a chartered school where I was employed as a General Assistant. Nestled behind Brick Church Pike was Smithson Craighead Academy's playground. Amongst the future Gen Alphas, and Thornburgs; the poem took flight. Sometimes,...