With not a thing to hear or see That's when I get acquainted with The utter stranger known as me. I yearn to turn a handspring though, And whistle through my teeth. That carries small stale crumbs of thought And darts around close to the ground, Or paws the air like one distraught. Often it annoys me too. A shadow of a shadow My face looks back at me.
Appearances Misleading are appearances.
A corpulent ouside may hide A soul that's starved and thin. The humbler joys of every day. I'm a minor contributing factor I clap at the worst acts the most I sympathize so with the actor. It's harder to apply them, though. Along the ground there sweeps the sound Of softly laughing flowers.