Wayne Leon Learmond
The Mists (Of you're Memories)
The fine mists
come rolling over.
And it is a fine
to mull things over.
You are here, again
Lost in you're thoughts
as you roam
this desolate park.
It's wide-open spaces
Seem to engulf
you're very being.
As the cry of the Raven
Carried upon the breeze.
Pulling you're coat up
closer to you're neck
And with hands in pockets
quiver with rage.
At the injustice
of it all.
Who needs them?
And, with an empty heart,
you gaze upon the lake.
You are feeling
As the trees begin
a more menacing shape.
The mists come rolling in
In a park that held such happy
of things gone by.
And, with head bowed,
you once again,
make you're way.
through the mists of time
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