If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away---Henry David Thoreau

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

My Soul at Sunset: a poem by Leo Hartshorn

dull as a worn pencil
my spirit this morning

tired as a miner at day's end
my body this noonday

blank as a sheet of paper
my mind this afternoon

dim as a burned out wick
my soul this evening

the yellow orb treks across
the dome of sky
marking my moods

I end the day in shadows
like the landscape at sunset

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