The words I use, are the multi coloured leaves
I share, the leaves that fall from my autumn trees.
They are the flowers, from who’s ovule, come the seeds
that have fallen upon none fertile ground.
Going nowhere, but around and around.
From them, nary a word, not a sound.
In decay, having fallen from the stem,
they tell, they enlighten, to who ?, who I am.
They, sometimes come, in torrential showers.
These word pictures of mine, never reach the towers,
for they are nothing more than dying, decaying flowers’.
Dust on the wind, falling upon the blind, the deaf, like rain
screaming to all, telling of degradation, humiliation and pain
that this life has brought, and brings around again.
All that has come from within,
I do not know where to begin,
except from this troubled soul.
From where it all comes ?, I do not know !
It just comes in flashes and begins to show
me, upon pages that lay before these eyes
as they come across the darkened skies,
from where this life of mine lies
You have come, boldly to me
like a dream in the darkness,
yet you seldom allow me to see
beyond the veil, your life in all its starkness.
I never know where you have been ?,
I only know what I have seen.