There is more
in common
here
than not.

Crock, kettle, boiled pot.
Blackness after stratosphere.
And, after body’s stiffened rot.
Melancholy and the fear
when set upon by black dog.
Burst clouds over heading near.
Foot stuck in the bog.
Doomed days blurred, unclear.
The jamming of the cogs.
No end in sight but
that’s more common
than it’s not.

Yes, there is more
in common here
than not.

A vision, now, I can steer
and see blue skies over every plot.
The motor’s running easy, top-tier.
I’ve got my foot loose from the crop.
The rain is more like happy tears.
What I thought was a houndly leer
turned out to be a gaze from a log.
Happiness’ touch in the eyes of deer
has pierced straight through my fog.
I’m glad to be alive in sheer
rocket sensed uplifting agog.

Either way you look it here.

There is so much more
in common
between us all
than not.

© poormansdreams