All the day
the letters danced,
and I can only eat
my thoughts.
In the parks,
the swings are empty –
but still swinging.
There is no place here,
for fire and the skin.
Such is the great absence,
of a song to sing.
Like a wound
A Wandering Poet
As I walk around I like to record what I experience. Through poetry, ideas and thoughts I hope I can share some of these experiences with you.
A Wandering Poet 