Slow, snow, go, well it rhymes at least.
a rest of a least twenty minutes is now required.
too much to write.
is everybody's a two minute wonder I wonder
thin arc of bowed buttermilk moon shines like a sliver of cheese.
scudding silver sails of cloud elude capture
as the stars look down miffed and mysterious,
all morning falls
skies fifty shades of grey
the gutters overflow, a Niagara
life graphs of ups and downs a chains of reason to capture man
to lose his very innocence
made mental madnesswith a circle of woven ice,
to freeze the fevered brain.
The future ain't what it used to be',
well the days get longer but the years shorter.
the cliched light at the end of the tunnel gets nearer;