Thinking and shrinking
The road, the stream it goes on a path right or not the water will go back In all directions depending on which way the wind will blow;
Blow,
a fine line of powder, time a late hour
coward
Sensitive motion a great commotion the shout, scream, of the empty fields a dream
the end the joke
Mind soup not a loop
The stream intertwined
a night bird dined at an odd particular time it had a story
It wore leather boots
Scent of potency
Burning leather
She admired
a invisible fire
Leafs burning,
trees earning
for a taste of the stream
but the wind lead it in another direction.
Correction if not evil, night hawk flights into the dark sky with no fright quite a sight
No one tell its devious outcome he never told where he was from.
A twisting turning stream no love in between.
Old stuff I wrote