The cranky sound of the rusty gate,
Proclaimed that I might have been too late;
In paying my visit to an old mate.

I wavered ahead to the front door;
Where the rusty lock that the house wore,
Stated that the occupants lived there no more.

I turned around, and might have thought my memory
Had tricked me in making a mistake;
But the sight of the distant blue lake,
Made it clear that none such was made.

With a heavy heart, I commenced to walk away;
When the lone sound of a crushed leaf,
(For there were many on the lawn astray)
Made me pause a moment; and look beneath,
And reflect upon my latest grief.

I take the Words
From what I see
All around
And put them together
To form some sort of coherent poem
Or story
Or whatever I shall like
And hope for the complete best