The chips fall down.
The dry wind dithers to and fro
Beneath the blank sky
Bearing dust and dying leaves
And rolls across the potholed road
To sink in stinking open drains
Where flies and worms do nest and breed
And prepare alike for a mighty feast.
The chips fall down,
Perhaps never to rise…
2 comments:
Chips fall where wind goes slow
perhaps just a mighty blow-
would suffice to make them fly,
above all,where they touch the sky!
who knows? one day things might change all of a sudden, and the chips could become rose petals and the drains become a gold tub.... who knows?
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