From Milan

The dimming sun with grey entwines; Slow fluttering of feathers in ones side, But slow walks, snap shots, clothing lines, And true selves get suffocated by pride. Entrusted things we cannot really share. The mind, thoughts and self together. I covet what I see when others pair, They watch me so I'd surrender. As stone towers are gold in the clear sky, I pass crosses that the written past bears. We can't be caught forever in the rye. All that remains is dust and feeble prayers.