The Glen

The Glen

Moving down a rocky slope,
Stepping over moss.
Living with the hope
That life is not a loss.

Picking wild geraniums,
Shuffling with the trees.
Running from the things
That fill me with disease.

Sitting in a pile of leaves,
Beside a shaded knoll,
The beauty here deceives
The mindlesss, heartless soul.

Rocks obstruct the way
Down to Icy Glen.
In the middle of May
The bugs attack all men.

Wooden bridges line the path
Back to the one-road town.
Back to rats and rejects,
Always feeling down.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1977. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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