Through the olive groves to the village that sleeps beneath the mountain the collapse of human kindness is far from me the language of nature is universal the wild birds only know songs of wisdom the Cypress tree leans upon its intelligence it only speaks of peace it has witnessed the tragedy of war there is happiness in the falling of leaves there is acceptance in the whisper of the restless wind ... Clay.M
It's the little things. Second hands in school clocks like hammers striking anvils too loud. Bored seconds are forever. Years later are now. We argue about everything. I'm always the fool.
I fret over this old typewriter's ancient keys. I look for perfect words to write perfect rhymes that refuse to be born. I miss the simple times, young me at bedtime begging god on my knees.