'Speak to me of things brand new, '
you said. 'Unturned, unburnt, not blue.'
And so, to make you gay and proud,
I tied your spirit to a cloud
and let it sail where e'er it went,
to lands of gold, of backs unbent
with toil, and care, and endless woes,
whose whereabouts nobody knows.
metamorphhh (aka jim crawford)
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bedtime-story-8/
