Sunday, August 7, 2016


Down the drive, there are leaves
That rustle in the breeze.
The long-lost music gives
A way in which I squeeze,
Despite all of the trash
Of the wicked and brash.
A travel to the past,
Wherein lies an old place.
Home to the good and just;
They're from the dwindling race.
I don't know why they're gone,
I don't know what they've done.
And the leaves make music,
All the tones that I seek
When my memory's weak.
They simply disappeared
Without a single trace.
What their enemies feared
Was a witness to face,
To tell the old stories,
And I'm in their worries.
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