I listen to the thrumming of the wind
These trees tell stories of a time,
not so different for some,
The climb is still as steep,
Though the hum less rhythmic.
Electricity lays its lines out flat
for us to keep.
I listen to the thrumming of the wind
These trees tell stories of a time,
not so different for some,
The climb is still as steep,
Though the hum less rhythmic.
Electricity lays its lines out flat
for us to keep.
This shouldn't hurt they say,
the scope going in,
Something remembered,
Like some small sin
Putting a thing
in the wrong bin
Realisation blooms
on the rotting pile within.
It shouldn't,
But it does,
Couldn't .....
All done ! they reply.
Yet the thorned thing
Grows
And we cry.
Once upon a time That devil rhyme Took some thoughts And made them mine. I used to worry about identity, Saw its links to authenticity, I ...