Friday, November 17, 2017


The sun blasts in my face now like thunder
Silver sparkling bright on the cars'  fools' gold
The cosmos wheels round now without blunder
The past does not exist now on this heath

The sun brightens with a prayer such wonder
The Lord of hosts puts treasures in my hand
Words cannot express not here nor  yonder
The wondrous workings in this holy land

Lady in tight pants lifts her arm and thumbs
Picked up by a pickup and then away
I'm sitting on a chair  by the Rio Theater
The clouds are moving fast across the lake

The future is a faded song itself...
A song that soon will come and soon be gone
Like men who rise and climb to strut the stage 
All endeavours quickly pass on along.

The leaves are blown off all the polar trees
Autumn's sweeping fast all heat away
 Motorcycle blows all future from me
I sit atop a swirl of glory days.

(C)2017 by W.G. Milne

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