Poetry

had a thought,
just before the sun set down
the trees against the orange shroud
a breeze whispers goodnite

there's a place,
right beside an icy stream
I'd lay down in the grass and dream
where I'd be today

stare at the wall,
and watch the movie in my head
frame by frame each path I tread
I always end up here

look away,
but I can't turn this damn thing off
all the stains that can't be washed
till my final day

the flake of snow,
that brings the oak tree down
and follows you around
from town to town to town

waking up,
to my same old face
another bowl of grace
watch the humans race