INANIMATY

some days life seems to be

the surrealistic painting on the wall

the lovely little girl in tints of pink

or museum bound; the silent scream

 

and me

I am the leaf on the gold-green tree

waiting to fall

suspended in inanimaty

 

today is hung

bound in colors

ridges and textures

 

perhaps a tweed-suited critic will stroll by

and define the meaning

and find a reason

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