autumn poetry

i make my shroud, but no one knows
i love my life, but not too well
a storm is riding on the tide
let us pity those who are better off than we are
i despise my friends more than you
she heard the children playing in the sun
when the hours of day are numbered
shadows lay along broadway
have we no shame?
why are the things that have no death
our pleasant moments fly
the single clenched fist lifted and ready
some one complained to the master
the swan existing