One more published poem of yours truly.
To this my tiny little abode,
I trudge my work-worn body home;
For a semblance of sensibility
And my rocking chair.
Here in the midst of confusion;
I close the shutters on my eyes,
And visualize;
A vibrant, blue sky
And tall, stately pine trees
Where the rich, brown earth beneath,
Has cradled the fallen leaves.
Where an atmosphere heavy with
Mystical aromas of exotic flowers
Linger in my nostrils and pierce
Through the fabric of my physique.
I picture my form on green grass;
Supine and looking up,
At the universe going round me;
And I, like the prodigal son,
Forgiven by his father,
Can breathe again.
But only for a while
Because tomorrow will mean another
Machines-dependent, paper shuffling day.
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