Thinking forward
for a few minutes.
The sun and moon
in a dark paint over.
The days and nights dissappear
like cuts and bruises.
But nothing is healed,
or forgotten.
It is a strange sect.
The band playing,
and only the dogs listening.
The world again
Thinking forward
for a few minutes.
The sun and moon
in a dark paint over.
The days and nights dissappear
like cuts and bruises.
But nothing is healed,
or forgotten.
It is a strange sect.
The band playing,
and only the dogs listening.
A Wandering Poet 