Discombobulated am I,
but matters it not.
The wind knows no grammar;
the rain has forgot.
Unraveled the morning,
unmapped, the way—
yet onward the light moves,
indifferent, the day.
Discombobulated am I,
but matters it not.
The wind knows no grammar;
the rain has forgot.
Unraveled the morning,
unmapped, the way—
yet onward the light moves,
indifferent, the day.
Northcoast Antiquarian 