Voices scatter on the ground
Free souls make the morning trek
A feeling of senescence emanates
As silver clouds billow and burst in the fall wind
The aura changes as the seasons fade
Circular and linear notions of time erupt quietly
Buried in the recesses of thought and perception
A fruitless pursuit greeted by more noise
The attempt to grasp fate vanishes into the night
Awaiting the dawn of recurrence
No comments:
Post a Comment