End of Writing

The end of writing I´m not a poet no more have crossed the field of roses in front of me a dark forest where blackened leaves have yet to fall. The forest is endless the hope is to find a tarn bottomless and mysterious and nymphs are calling my name and made or me a bed of rosebuds, but not under Damocles sword the spirits of my life have a baroque sense of humour. I have thrown away my pen, no more scribbling on a piece of paper or bank statement if I write it will be with a stick on a beach at the edge of the sea and see as the ripples erase what I wrote something about a dream in the land of forgetfulness. Since my birth there have been endless wars, do dictators sprout from the earth like cabbage, but to this forest they will not dare to tread, less they will be petrified forever lost in the dark flora.