A notebook full of undecided,
a flotilla of submerged ships
a carriage clock and a rifle stock,
this is what's left of dreams,

divide your attention, pay no heed, but your  livestock won't live without fresh feed.

A farmer, a goat herd,
a problem solved,
we're big boys now
we've come of age and think
we have evolved.

As usual this leads me nowhere
and we have all been there
filled diaries full of nothing
pages of fresh air.

The thermometer stalled at 39
and nosedived into a cooler time

somewhere between the evidence
and the proof that we were born
stands someone they call the
Nazarene
or was that a vagrant dream?