I sit on my pile and think for a while
where this will all go
Is there any merit, in speech like a parrot
that others will follow
Every breeze
coming from
A hand in the trees
All these songs
they are not, just but orphaned
but failures to numbers
every one turns to gold
a theme in a movie
that never gets old
Riches that pass through time
a treasure for everyone to uncover
but the key to that chest has to come from inside...
Or all will turn to ash
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A Conversation with Myself
If you're not me, you'd only be here if you went out of your way to look.
Turn back, or buckle in, bucko.
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