Clouds drip their ashes,
black and dark, and silent.
‘Dance to the music’ you said
But this is not a fantasy,
where children play
on snow covered hills.
And words dance with delight.
It is a place for pale moons,
and a past worn well.
With people sobbing to the
sounds of ancient mandolins.
To catch happiness, you have
to be content with what you have
Even then, there is still no
mercy for the kind.
A Wandering Poet 