Landays woven from the pencil etchings of a mad poet

Landays woven from the pencil etchings of a mad poet

 

A stone gathers moss between the cracks

Its little things gone unnoticed that need attention

 

Running streams move in all directions

The future doesn’t exist for the dead; time stands still

 

The acorn weeps for the dying tree

Dried up roots and brittle branches is Nature’s warning

 

Wolves prowl the streets while rats eat their pups

When you romp around in the mud make sure your suit’s clean