Poetry

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It was eight am.Another day starts again,about seven minuets,am
back at base,a certain memory i can't erase;back to work with a
little haste,on this sunny day,a little voice was heard to say,
its alright for you mister,you can walk;was taken aback,when i looked around,six or more young teens,sat on the ground,thee can
whistle,but i can't walk,her friends were keeping this young
lass company,as i walked briskly to my place of work,the sun
beamed down,yet it seemed quite dark,due to the very sad remark,
so easy then to stride,and strut,thought me a lesson on how not to walk,though in another land i know.good lessons learned are
the ones that grow,until GOD,says to me its time to go,a final
lesson i will need to know,GOD WILL,tell me am sure,i pray so.
Joe.

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