Now the wine
has stoped working
and these poems
sit quietly like
tired horses
I wish sorrow
was a stranger
but she shines
brightly sometimes
like silver in a
rubble of stone
she follows me
down every street
she haunts my
road of truth
I see her in the bars
in ally ways
in tiny rooms of
loneliness
I see her smile
through dusty light
I see her stand so thin
so sweetly by the
midnight winter trees
Clay.M