Clouds hang low over the pond,
reaching to kiss their dim reflections.
Autumn freckled leaves drop,
disturbing their supplications.
A breeze gently caresses mere and grove alike,
gently nudging them from their narcissism.
Branches rustle softly;
their prophetic sybilations cry "Turmoil!"
Rain drops plummet,
whole worlds intact,
dashing themselves to oblivion -
Mighty warriors,
they earn their entry into a watery Valhalla.














Comments
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Then I went down into the basement where my friend, the maniac, busies himself with his electronic graffiti.
Finally his language touches me, because he talks to that part of us which insists on drawing profiles on prison walls. -West Rider Silver Bullet.
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"If you believe you can or you cannot, you will be correct" - Henry Ford.
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