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Losing the count
One two three
And I fly
My arms are swaying
And my head is held high
Four five six
And I’m on the tire swing
My screams are shrill
And my throat is dry
Seven eight nine
And I look behind my back
The hand that rests on my shoulder
Is still intact
Ten eleven twelve
And the world seems fair
The flurry little rabbit
Not yet ensnared
And then I lose the count
Of the many times that I
Fell and never got up
Lost and defeated.
One two three
Here comes the loser
The baton twirler
Of sadness and misery
Four five six
And a couple of leaves
That get my by
That my mother never sees
Seven eight nine
And I’m up on a high
Mountain that oversees
The graying sky
Ten eleven twelve
And I look down
And for the last time
I fly.
And it is then,
That the count is lost
Forever
And ever.
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Even i dont know what this poem is about.