Door-mat
Maybe is what tomorrow promise...
a hand full of earth, slipping through
my fingers... back to where it belongs... left there
to be trembled upon... shift around to anyones
liking... filling up wholes, mixed with water
to form mud.
natures choice, but still it holds the future and
sustain live... bare from its bally everything needed
by men... if its well, it grows... abundently so.
If than tomorrow its promise to keep I’ll gladly be
that fool being walked over being neglected...
for I’ll feed men to keep on using me in order to servive.
