Monday Poetry

We never know how high we are (1176)

Emily Dickinson

We never know how high we are
  Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
  Our statures touch the skies—

The Heroism we recite
  Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
  For fear to be a King—

Walking Dead

By Billie Daddario

Walking the streets are the walking dead.

They walk the streets, giving nothing back.

Taking it all in. Giving no joy nor pain.

They just walk by and by.

These people are easy to spot.

They’re not restless

They don’t want change

No upending the apple cart

No weekend trips to Spain

These are the people dead in the head

They go along just to get along as long as they aren’t asked to move one iota.

It’s easy to die in the head and still be walking around

It’s easy to like what we have

It’s easy not to want something more

Something different, something better by far.

It’s easy to see when you’re young it’s harder when you are old.

And you’ve learned that really it’s all quite the same.

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