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Downs
By
Rusty Broadspear
A vast open dry plane,
Always to be followed,
With invisible obstacles,
Giving a break in life,
Probably making it worth living.
Humiliation occurs occasionally,
As does snow in Summer,
Hurting, somewhere inside,
Like a cancer growing through the body,
Accompanied by kindness mostly,
Or is it pity?
Like a freak animal is an exception,
I am, also.
At least, a blurred feeling tells me so.
Fixed eyes stare at me,
And study me inwardly, prodding and poking,
Playing with a faulty life.
Outwardly I like them,
Inwardly I pity them,
Because they are intelligent and realise.
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