A Melodious Vintage

I walk I dream I love Not as a prophet of life Or death however it comes first but rather as a beaten soul For which I wish to be attached in vain And yet alive with some who are telling me What color is the wind that has been blowing yesterday? When speak I drink I sleep To the beauty in the social garden revolves Responding only in empty hearts Shall not I reply her with tears again? Standing alone I watch what I left behind: A fathomed dog and a narrow home and a stormy Existence overlooks the olden days before I began to dream.