There are times when the world stalls,
The millpond settles to a mirrored sky 
And even the reeds cease to sway,
The wind hushed, blown out.
And no matter where you look;
How hard you listen;
How much you grasp the earth in tired fingers,
Everything is wrong,
Not quite right,
They might say you’re disenchanted
These people of the razor-blade smiles
With their pristine jackets
And sparkling whites,
But what pains most,
What burns
Is, they are right,
You just don’t know why.


20 thoughts on “Disenchanted

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