Traffic Jam.

The engines of traffic jammed on the road outside,
Tick as cars, free to move, whoosh the other way.

The occasional grind of a lorry, climbing the hill
Straining in a low gear, On this sunny spring day.

As I work at my keyboard, writing and thinking.
Of how to tell stories, to be heard in the best way.

And all happens under imperceptible shadows cast,
By wispy high white clouds painted on blue sky.

And I thank the fates I am here, to hear and see,
And not trapped in a car, wishing time would fly.

Popular posts from this blog

Your Gods.

Why Yeshuah is a myth.