Inspired by the next page in an old notebook, no music yet, may never be. Hopefully you all had a great FAWM!. It was a fun month and I have a couple keepers. This sort of sums up the month for me as I rekindled thoughts I had forgotten and only by the grace of paper and pen was able to find a bit of completion for scattered thoughts. I would consider this a first write....so
The make of a man, has been said,
By what he does when he is alone,
I feel alone though strangers surround me,
In my thoughts and dreams,
No childhood screams taunt me,
Does that mean I have matured?
The loneliness I used to hate,
Refreshes me today,
So many people, so many worlds,
Divergent, detergent, dreams,
We need each other, beat each other,
As the reaper slowly puts us to sleep.
I dreamed I was a mountain,
Eons old and then a few years,
Life was playing out in the forest,
I so dearly reared.
I dreamed I was a songbird,
Everyone would cheer, as the air
Rushed through my vocal folds,
Pushing sound wave to their ears.
When I’m alone, I have to write,
It’s uncontrolled, I don’t try to fight,
Not all my thoughts are pleasing,
Some bring on the tears.
The make of this man,
Sits in old notebooks stored away,
To be dusted off, to live again,
Every fourth leap day.