If I remember rightly,
we struck a road –
an unconventional one.
One that saw good
houses full of life,
and the spring winds
opening the flatness
of the books.
The ghosts complained,
that this was not the
age-old way of the rain.
And if we carried on,
the seas will dry
into a shiny desert.
But we carried on anyway,
to close to paradise –
and too tired of the
saddest city roads.
A Wandering Poet 