With words I speak my doubt, What can I say all hollowed out? Of yet to see and not to. In desperation my thoughts continue. A ruptured task, I'm surely past. All that I knew would come to last.
A disease of words, a murder of crows, a conversation of pacts, a simile grows. Collective nouns a wonder in passing. All that we wish is there for the asking. Words associate, we show, top the rate. A useful thought comes to congregate. Too late and fate complacent we wait. The rope that ties down skies we become, to find degenerate, just what we hate. Down our thoughts we dance with glee, truth seldom wrought if you see what I see. A running times list of propensity. A sickness of mind that delivers this truth that never surface in the follies of youth.
Now heed this well you commentators of truth. The country of romance is not the prerequisite of youth.
© Copyright 2016 Ken Simm. All rights reserved.