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How does the whistle of
an old man prey
the memories gone day by day.
Whistle no tune or
pattern at all;
Just a song for his
season at fall
Every exhale brings into mind
a once forgotten lovely time
The macabre display of
life gone short,
The array of battles won
and fought.
How does the whistle on
an old man prey?
Deep into his mind a love
always to stay.
Life is this to the
whistler now.
Life is all but a whistle somehow.
God Is:
The tapping of the waves.
The sunlight and rays.
The moments in your pocket.
The time, when you can't stop it.
The valley bewteen the sand and our feet.
The land where you and your mind can meet.
The guider of rain to the earth below.
The earth, man, water and this whole entire show. |
