Round is the disc for which no one cares.
All day long hes beaten and brusied
Far from his glourious days all shined and smoothed
Now dirt is found in between his groves.
Left outside in the dead of winter
To freeze and hope for the best.
Yet when the ground breaths
And the birds cheep
Come the days of his dreams
When again he sore
And no longer be bored
Yet as these days fade
He is happy always.
Round is the disc for which no one cares.

By connor sikora