Poetry

You were obliged 
to watch the curse 
on the caterpillar, 
forced to fly. 
 
It was a stunning spectacle. 
The walnut tree scooping 
to gather, 
the gold of black berries. 
 
Speak up my lord. Did you live 
in the ghetto to know the 
truth of thatched roofs? Were 
you afraid of huge mansions? 
 
It was not your heart; a 
borrowed sample of imitiative 
poetry. I will still go for 
the rhythm of unspoken words.