The concrete carves the flesh of earth,
the little ants must prove their worth.
All we perceive to be so big,
Would, to a god, be but a twig.
Thousands of trees
the people, the bees,
both big and small,
both short and tall.
From the view of the heavens, with angels and harps
all that below is like spilled paint on the tarps.
A canvas of wax, painted and cut.
The squiggles and lines are both beauty and smut.
No comments:
Post a Comment