Ominous sky outside.
Dark clouds surrounding us.
Yet the preachers preach their thing,
and the audience, and the leaves, hang still.
A storm must be brewing near.
Unlike the APPles...red and green,
the brushes—all frayed, unseen...
Yet the hands like to draw neat things,
though the air 'round here stays still.
A storm must be brewing near.
No comments:
Post a Comment