The stickman
He moves
With steps ailing.
He looks
Up to
The yellow sky
As the brown earth
His tears kiss.
He looks
Down on
His shriveled hands,
These hands
Have small mouths
To feed and clothe
And love.
But he wishes
To pierce
The yellow sky
Across the black expanse
For home to reach.
Yet not now.
Not soon.
There are small mouths
To feed and clothe
And love.
2 comments:
Thank you for that. Like most art, poetry is subject to the interpretation of the audience. This one spoke to me of the heartache of earthly life, the blessed hope I long for, and my sons that need me to stay here a while longer and raise them up.
Sir,
You perfectly grapsed the meaning of the poem.
Thank you for the appreciation.
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