Poetry

In the western wind
There are whispers of forgotten sins
Where fallen stones have covered them
And trap a misted sigh within

In the shifting sand
There are footsteps of a darkened man
Where dunes and devils that have dealt his hand
In measured sorrows spin

Round the fire
a tune of tears, a dirge of weathered moments lost
A song to pay some yet unfathomed cost
We wither there

Round the table
a tale of weary truth and naught-forgotten ghosts
A story sold to pay for all that matters most
It withers there

If I walk fast enough
I won’t remember where
I came from

My thinker hasn’t had a Thought—
Not even when I’ve thought a lot.
This Thought’s so small, that one too tall—
It’s better to not Think at all.