Wordwright II

Sitting, slouching, at the keyboard,
Dusty as day's first thought,
The light spitting in my eyes,
I consider what to write.
Holes in the heart,
The majesty of nature,
The shortcomings of men,
The screaming of the beaten,
The smoldering greed of all in charge,
The rampant nitwits at FOX news?
Why can't there be miracles?

poem by Stan Petrovich
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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