Behold the table standing there,
Where dwells an empty plate so bare.
No morsels rest upon its face,
No bounds contain its empty space.
Through countless days both slow and fast,
It waits, as moments come and pass.
To share in sorrow or delight,
Its presence marks both day and night.
It sits without a hint of spite,
Unaware of waiting’s plight.
No sense, no sight, no feeling’s seed,
Indifferent to its destined need.
Clever you are, Mr poet-man. You'll have a rhyme for every word at the rate you're going :)
ReplyDeleteYou know me, it's where the mop flops or what ever slaps my face.
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