We are all made of dreams We all want to touch the sky And find our ‘why’ But we have our excuses For one, the sky is too high Or the laws of nature are a complete lie.

Autumn always reigned on the tree of my dreams Multicolored leaves and angling twigs   Leaves always seemed to leave on pilgrims To the god of death and his temple of twisted limbs.   Passersby always heed the aging hues of their rims With a kind word or two, adieu they always bid.   Buds Read more…