The
roughest plots oft reveal
Pragmatic
poplars seeded still
A
time for reflection is ever open
Exist
it will now and always
Between
the fabric glass that is tomorrow
And
the brittle, yet encompassing cabinet,
With
drawers of advice, from ghosts that once clothed-
-To
specters of nakedness
Ill-optioned
is the desperate crone,
Voiceless,
anxious and very alone
Interred
by the truth and the truth of turn-
If
orders are given he must obey,
Despite
the flaws the eyes can see-
Disobey
or disagree- results in punishing
Yet
To
carry out and fail kills the spirit within
What’s
a crone to do?
