Sometimes I wonder where I have strayed upon to. I wonder across the green pastures in search of the food my shepherd has to offer; and…
and I greedily take them all for my own.
I feel I need to know my place…
I carry some dirt, mud, on my body. My imperfect white coat smeared, tainted. Frisbee was never meant to be a clean sport, yes. Our coat can be cleaned.
The disc thrower floats the frisbee in search of me once more. My eyes transfixed on the UFO-like saucer. The wind threatens to throw it off course. I snatch it midair…
The call, a revelation, to signal where I shall be led. I shall not let the wind mislead me.
In the endzone, I hover about, waiting to be found, knowing that I shall.
No comments:
Post a Comment