by The Prophet
Just something I wrote while on a break in between classes at UBC.
Weeping willows of the woman torn
I am the number three.
Beyond your eyesight of forbidden gore
You see only bare necessities.
I went to sleep in the jungle of voices
I sat in a much too small seat.
My eyes are closing at the moment
And my writing becomes faker.
It's only been mere five minutes
I am burning under the relentless sun.
Why do I not move somewhere else?
Because it's just too much fun.
~ March 3, 2001.