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Rated: E · Poetry · Philosophy · #2202044
A short poetry
(Written originally on 12/5/19)

When we glide around our playful day,
Absorbed in a moody play.
So haughty that we don't care,
If picking on butterflies is fair,
If hurting little ants over that tree,
Comes today really free;
But someday they will surely fly,
Like we do in our gifted sky.
And our decades of wine,
Will end watching them shine.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2202044