Thy promise, old friend
Like a late flower
Died before its blooming
And the love I hold for thee
Withers with the spent vine
When will you return?
Thy speech, old friend
Like the dried stream there
Lies rotting in mem'ry
And the rhythem it created
Now only echoes forth
How long shall I wait?
Thy face, old friend
Like that weathered mountain
Has worn down in my mind
And your picture on the wall
has faded over time
Do you remember me?
There.
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Drifting Chaos
This is my realm. The realm of shadows & grays, of poems and songs. It is a realm full of chaos & confusion, as well as a spice of understanding. Also, this is a realm made up of words.....
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