Poetry

The pungent smell of dry 
smoldering leaves, greet you 
when you cross the road. 
 
The knower has become 
unknowable and I start collecting 
the pebbles, a remimder 
of lost childhood. 
 
Somebody has kidnapped the 
art of the nocturne. The 
songbird will never find the moon. 
 
When you are under attack 
you run faster, 
to drink the speed of dust. 
 
It was a case of intimidation. 
Invisible ghosts were demanding 
their bricks of gold.