I polled myself-- a single throng-- With two choices--right or wrong? When wrong was loud and right was soft, Wrong was the one I held aloft. . . But then I saw it wasn't right-- The crowd went quiet; the voice was mine.
Share this:
Categories: poems
John Bolton’s Wars (a poem) 
As If a Cell Can Bar a Soul (a poem) 
Rumple Oxbridge: “Twitter Totter” 