Ranting path

We can walk thousands of miles but never make a path. A path yet untouched by man but struggles to form an idea. Thousands of things tied into a huge string- these theories, revenge, new life have me at stand still- here & now. A poets last bow. No no never more- this isn’t who…

The layer

Hanging on the ladder. Me, myself and I. Greeted by laughter and just the sad faces of painted clay masters. I will not be shaken off by my heart nor these bastards. I have the blood but this doesn’t make me one. I have bled through the rain clouds and killed the living green earth…