The dying may begin, red to green and then to the righ. It’s the track with least noise of all like a soft punch muffled in the snow, not all is heard that is being said those voices are further away than thoughts aloud. One starts to realise I am not like my father and in the end we are at one with our own being, till the bitter, so bitter tastless ends, and that my sins are different than my fathers and I never inherited them I was just his son, amen.
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The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive
The Poetic Warrior Returns to his Poetry after Illness Welcome One, Welcome All