Poetry

The Gift

They come sorted and sifted,
Declare-stamped as gifted,
Shrink-wrapped and packed,
Rank-ordered and stacked.

On treadmills they turn,
On the spot they learn
Expectations (too) great,
Realisations running late.

Who am I running for?
Where was that open door?
When did all go amiss?

Why am I doing this?

The answers lie with you,
ies will answer true.

1 thought on “The Gift”

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