Poetry IV

The Sparrow and I

Sitting on a bench, time passes by

Half asleep in a park, I dream I die.

I inhale a short piece of death.

Present of someone I didn't meth.

A sparrow comes by, he think less of me.

It bends to its beak, on a seed laying free.

I am nothing to it, just a statue or a tree.

It goes as it comes, the sparrow feels free.

I stare and await, Time still over there.

Not much else have to do, when you life has an end.

Loneliness is companion, emptiness my state

which I salute every day, from a green wooden bench.

Thoughts of me, of you, of every one I knew.

Feelings of don't, what couldn't be, but it won't.

Regrets, painful sadness blinds my eye.

Smoke from nothing but a hot ash on my thumb.

I expected more, as you do,

I saw you,

you turn your face around.

No shame in be a man, as I do,

but it is,

if you nothing do to about.

We all think and hope for greatness,

even if we know they are emptiness.

Shadow times for shaded people,

I see many, they are helpless.

Be of them, you'll feel free,

not for much, a pocket fill.

I assure you, you'll forget me,

when you feet, keep you hopping.

That what I, went to suffer,

it would never come to you.

But remember, my good nothing,

as I am, so do you.

Cause there's something, no regrets,

when you'll know, you'll be next.

And for you, and for me,

here, in my wooden bench.

It will always be a good sparrow,

free to show us, we are death.