I fell by my tree mangled by an autumn's huff,
I had sailed through those early mighty storms
But weathered away in some days pouring rain,
As I could no longer be so strong,
Half of my life, I lived in my head,
In shades of grey, white and red,
Talked all to myself, all day, every day,
Fiddling in the mutiny of rights and wrongs,
When we are born, we are bound to decay,
Decay in the valley of time,
Often we forget this sour truth,
So mean, yet straight and strange at times,
There sure would be a perfect reason,
For life to change in every season,
Slowly the gritty backdrop of my theater changed,
The actors continued on their stage.
What is poetry?
Sometime I ponder…
Is it a quest?
Or a reason?