Friday, September 27, 2002

a poem, by Michael Sherillo

How do I know what hopelessness is;
when my goals have flitted out of reach?

Is there a smell upon the air, rotten or fair;
something fragrant or something bitter sweet?

Maybe it's the way, the soft shadows grow,
slowly changing the world into black.

Or maybe it' the sigh of a lonly tree in the breeze,
swaying, forever, forward and back.

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