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.
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