Poetry

Disenchanted Disgrace

What vigour remains,
In an ever motive world,
When metal mammoths,
Are reduced to cars,
And swing sets rust,
Under the sun,
When the enchanted eyes,
Of a curious child,
Are reduced to an adult’s,
Tired little gaze,
When birds flying by,
Aren’t magical,
What a useless,
Disenchanted disgrace.

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