Dreadful when green waters
Expel their contents, spewing
Onto fields nearby,
Curled in fetal position–
Forsaken in passionate youth,
Or anytime–
The sun shone
It always does–
Illuminating innocent faces
Waiting in some corner
At the edges of the day
Begging to be noticed
While the rest search calmly online.
Why can’t they fly.


This poem was written using W.H. Auden’s poem “Musée des Beaux Arts” to create a “found poem”  at www.tweetspeakpoetry.com. Click here  to read other submissions or to submit one of your own.