Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Feb 2014
Walking in the bandit's orchard one might ask
is this really all that strange?
Are we only wearing masks?
But the question arising to be seen is not within ourselves.
It only lives in others, and in others it shall dwell
This fantasy eludes us, yet we follow it till death
And this fantastical journey we'll follow,
follow until our final breath.

The lands in which we wallow are tormented with this wish,
and the people who live here are only thriving off the fish.
It's December in September and Winter in July
We'll never know what our lives hold,
so until then we'll only lie.
Michael Jeffrey Wille
Written by
Michael Jeffrey Wille  Elburn
(Elburn)   
558
   carolyn wille
Please log in to view and add comments on poems