Sheep

Bone weary lie a while, still
counting sheep in the ceiling tiles,
monotonous, long-faced bleaters,
legs flailing over a cobbled fence
that separates fact from fiction
and falls flat at the barest
nick of a hoof, so they mingle
and no distinction can be made.

by Ayn Timmerman

Other poems of TIMMERMAN (37)

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.