Beauty the Sight

Beauty, the Sight My heart is a block of cement pavement, sadness my poetry is prose and little more. I have written collections of poetry but in the end they are mostly political musings. Yet, concrete cannot stop nature, through cracks tiny green grass grows, or you may call it a weed. Perhaps I have got something written that in the mass of words there are pearls of poetry. Once I saw a motorway not yet open for cars, a caravan of gypsies, with their carts full of children small horses and dogs, traversing in peace. I know they will be there when cars are a curiosity living a life of quiet contentment and they will take little interest in the disappearance of the white A race who thought they could have it all, and that was exquisite poetry, beauty and the random A kismet of faith, a man trying to be God.