I'm afraid I'll end up living a small life, in a small place, and my small dreams are just what remain. That when I'm decaying somewhere far underground and returning to where I began All I'll be is a small memory in just another brain. The words I've scribbled (or typed) will all be long gone. the people I made smile will be all far away. I'm afraid of when my small spirit starts to fade.
November mist wraps a wet blanket as I walk the falling day’s labyrinth beneath neuronic trees of a waking forest along a river dying in hyacinth!
the boatman sings a home going song floats happy at the end of the ride the river is narrow a few furlong and his home is on the other side!
oil lamps flicker from the bank huts winds carry their laughter and cries grow darker tree barks as darkness shuts all but the sky’s heavy sighs!
I hasten to escape this melancholic gloam an alien in this forbidding night the boatman must have reached his home and the river is lulled in starlight!