A quarter past ten
I step in the yard
The dog in my wake rushes by
I take a good look
Around in the dark
Then I gaze right up at the sky
The rustling of leaves
The cold autumn air
The wind blowing over the crowns
I lose my footing
As I get real sad
The stars are beaten by towns
© 2017
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October '17 |
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| Monday, January 20. 2025 | ||||||
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| 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 |
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| 29 | 30 | 31 | ||||
You see, here you'll find poems and prose of opportunity and seasons. They're ours, though, so we have to protect them. Respect! Thank you!
Readers are welcome! If you are willing to follow the iconian path, you should know that it is always you we are talking to, even if it is not. And that everything is true, even if it is not. We all are eternally united in the last space possible where even the impossible is real. We ought to believe the foretold: If we'll meet tomorrow, next year, or never, it doesn't matter, it's only time! And everything, even time is fiction.
By the way, typos and other mistakes - we know there are many. If you can be bothered, please let us know. Thank you! And for any legal issues, please contact us before we have to tell you that we're skinned. But you can also write, of course, if you like what you read. Please, write to the webmaster.
