this space is not for me
not for the skin that clothes me
nor for the hungry soul that sustains me
every leaf colorful fallen
from every thinning tree about me
could easily inhabit this empty space
the manifest destinies
of myriad multitudes could adorn
these walls like tinctured tapestries
each beating heart in Tunis
would crow in absolute abandon
at the enormity of this eager world
and yet were I to shrivel
coldly cowering in the narrowest
corner, still this space were not for me
George Ellington 
Your angst has a very gifted tongue, George.
❤
David
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I’ll have you know, mate, that my angst and I are the best of friends. We go everywhere together. Inseparable. 😉
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*laughs aloud*
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Lovely poem. Thanks for sharing.
Gwen.
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