How the Beggar Is Buried
By Frederick Pina
As I write, this, the warm sun is: behind me. Warming.
My shoulders, as I dream of sin. For I hope in all.
You feel defeated. For the world has indeed, challenged me.
And I ask ? Why ? Why should I go on ? Miserably climbing.
Mountains, and rocks. To achieve: nothing.
But a puffed-up pride, an image. Polished, to shine.
Like, this, very sun. Behind my shoulders. I am warmed.
I thank the originator, for my breath. How I missed.
The envy & the train. For I longed for smiles.
Music and even, well en-dowed, whose member penetrates. Like a vine.
I live like a beggar. Hand to Mouth. Circumstantial...
Evidence ? It's red head, a flower. Forget so...
This story is best: told, in the ground.