A  flock  of  wild  geese
have  just  flown  by.

Very  pleasing  
to  the  eye.

I'm  in  the  heart
of  nature  here.

Quite  content
with  little  fear.

Mother  nature  works  away
something  new  turns  up  each  day.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK. 2016.

Am I crazy?
I see people, who aren't really there.
They talk to me, whispering things in my ear.

Shhh,
Don't tell anyone.
They'll lock you back up,
No discretion, but you just have bad luck.

They tell me I'm psychotic,
And dose me up on meds,
To make me feel "sane" again,
Their lies I will be fed.

But I've been there before, I've seen the road and I've been through the doors,
Seconds feel like years when you're in an asylum,
Your heart they will pour.

Don't call me schizophrenic,
Because I swear that I'm not,
I know the people that I see,
Were  once alive like me.

Part one

Pull my love with me into the earth
Where all that is heavy is laden in decay
As all thought brings the sleepless sleep
Harvesting nature with words of despair that form the great unread
A hopeless emotion that offers no function

Part two

Do we exist as a definition of existence
Is this existence the gift of life
Or Is it our place to challenge that this is the will of God
As if life is of man without God
If I am pulled underground
Then there will be no light

planting and then digging up the past
like grasping hands of shattered glass
scattered patterns come back fast
an attachment to the splattered mass

blackened fragments of first and last
spattered paths that lead right back
stabbing agony that will never pass
shackled to the everlasting black

with no place left to go
i face the cold hard fight
when you live under a rock
darkness is your only sight

with no stone left un-turned
that leaves me nowhere to hide
left out in the sun to burn
i can't turn this stone inside

with no reason left to live
i grow colder by the night
crawling from this stone to give
my life to the dying light