It Is This Actually My Dear
it is a trip to
nowhere
you do not know where
to start
you do not know where
to stop
you carry yourself but
you want to find it
you seem to hold on to
the usual answers
but you are suspicious
of the questions
you go round and round
but you feel you are on top
and then
you fall and rise and rise
and fall
somehow at the end
of the day
you feel complete and
yet your stomach growls
you brain stirs
and makes the house one
whirlpool
where at the center of
it all
you sleep soundly like
a vintage wine
kept at the basement
where the
cellar lies
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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