Grace Sampson
Absolutely no respect for how it is spent.
Swiftly springs and autumns pass,
I can explain. My name’s Sarah.
Words are no longer enough,
He is in his present wild state,
How should I know how many?
How could he have survived that?
Every day can be an adventure;
Bitter Green they called her waiting in the sun,
Polo necked sweater and drinking his latté.
By conversing with a few masons,
Far more than herbs and flowers,
Not even the Sun God wants to watch.
Recycled Poetry 