Comments about Bullion Grey
I search for myself in a senseless time.
Sometimes my search is a senseless rhyme.
A right of passage to my old age,
the thought of enduring a serious stage?
It's not enough all I need, could be such, while I breathe?
Yesterday and today and what of tomorrow,
and the fiddler you paid and what of the sorrow?
Sure there was laughter and joy at sometime,