Sonnet7

The sky is wide, but not so wide, my dear
a bird can't find my head to void upon
The earth is broad, but not so broad I fear
my foot can't find a load to happen in.
Carefully selected from its peers
the rose I've chosen always hides a bee.
Umbrellas guarantee the weather clears
forgetting one, a shower bodes for me.
After standing hours in the cold
the ticket window closes in my face
All that I considered to be gold
actually, they tell me now, was dross.
Things are, you can plainly, bad, see-
it may be time to play the lottery.

poem by Morgan Michaels
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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