Politics and gain
Oh so vain
Have I ,would become

Offender and the offended
Are they same in the game

Where's the next bend
There seems to be no end

Mixed emotions
Run through the veins
Know not any retreat

A land unknown ,
No fear lays
Unknown, it forever stays

What if End comes
Untimely
I would be Ghost Writer

Mica begins to shimmer along the red clay byway
Songbirds beseech portals of morning sunlight that criss -cross the scrub valley
The sawyers tally spray painted in orange , fumes of diesel carried by the angry winds of March , yellow mechanical monsters that continually feed , how many trees will fulfill the pulp wooder's needs* ..

it is few that seek for color,
when the world leaves them grey.

it is few that climb mountains,
when only plains come their way.

I look, but I don't see...
I don't see my reflection.
A stranger stands before me,
staring back deeply into my eyes.

I only see a woman...
a woman who isn't me.
Her skin is so tight to her face,
she is tiny like a child.

Lines are imprinted,
around her dry lips.
Dark circles encompass,
each end of her eyes.

Her cheekbones protrude-
the light hangs on the edge.
Her smile is weak and faded;
who is this person I see?

I don't want to look,
she saddens my heart.
I don't want to see reality,
staring into the mirror.