Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
do not know everything
only my version

a fraction of the whole
blue sky thinking
here
I've really enjoyed my stay
Brought tears of joy
To my day

I'd really would like to stay
But the flip of the coin
says , nay nay nay

You've all been so kind
Made it all worth
my time

But it can't be put off
a second longer
no time to scoff

Call me a supertramp
A hobo hologram
Call me anything
you'd like to stamp

Just don't call me
I'm the son of moonlight
Silent soft and free
Dark night, dumb fright, furry foxes howl
Shy moon, hides soon, barn owls sharply call
In thickets, chirp crickets, mew nervous cats
Above meadows, paint shadows, low flying bats.

From soiled bones, rise the moans, of souls buried deep
Clothed white, in low skylight, you hear a spectre weep
The cottage light, now out of sight, the dark is denser still
You want to run, to safe someone, but frozen is freewill.

A few furlong, but seems so long, now turning back
Your heavy feet, can't do the feat, finding the right track
You can't run, you'll be outdone, and it's not a myth
When you move too far, break the bar, winds stop their breath.

The hood of dark, makes its mark, you're nomore seen
It's too late, to change the fate, not let the fear win
You forget fright, dive into night, it's turned a good game
A foxlike howl, a hooting owl, you're happily one of them.
Somewhere outside
the ship of dreams
made up of black midnight blues , floats lifelessly in the morning dew .
A house is more
than brick , wood and motar
Life resides inside the structure

Every house has its bones
that become broken
by time
and then they are gone

You can feel the past that's speaking
The laughter , chatter and the weeping

Everyone says do not go
There's nothing there
but the pain you know

[Oh! the memories that were made . . .
when they lowered you into the grave . . .]

Now these days the birds sing and play
The new blue sky takes my breath away

Still I'm sadden
The loss immense
Even gone the picket fense

Every house that once was home
made of brick , motar , wood or stone

Becomes a cenotaph to the memories made . . .
to the past that's missing . . To those through enduring
. . . stayed . . .
feeling my way
through the history of this place
 Mar 13 Pax
Zara rain
Road home
 Mar 13 Pax
Zara rain
When you are tired enough to
quietly step into the night.
Your only concern should be,
that the path you take
was for you and you only.
My restless nights are wearing me out. It's not about being unable to sleep. It's rather about always being awake.
Next page