Two hands, not a mile

My life is not gentle, it is black and hopeful,
Anything can astonish a citizen;
The mischief lies in getting the wrong ones.
It seems a splendid day, I believe in crops.

Does it proclaim satisfy a woman, I was not
Certain of my mother. I do not. I saw her in a
Doorway, leaving; there is a cloth where I have
Water; I do not determine selfishness.

She had deep set trustworthy eyes, once, dark
Like her hair; light flesh colored life: my father
Wondered about islands. He did not forget a war.
They called it the great one, before they knew to

Number them. He missed that clarity. I begged not
To. I prayed for him. I believed and so he was. What
Is a death. I cannot see what I shall a bit in a field,
So that always I can always I do mean to get about.

Presently the soldiers wives returned. I wish I were
May be I am one of them. They brought the stretchers.
Not any more begging. I fill a free uniform white instantly.
Those features are peculiar to a life. Please be sojourn.

Copyright © 09/29/2019 lance sheridan®

N20 Two hands, not a mile