Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches on the wall,
And waits for breakfast to drop dead,
And never blinks at all,
And rotting in the sun is smelled;
And still must be the form
That interests the hopeful bird
Competing with the worm.
When I am stretched upon the sand,
Discarded old debris,
Then comes that feathered hopeful thing
To scatter crumbs of me.
Posted by: Chris Clarke
Categories:
Poetry
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