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Amongst the fields of sands
The cold wind blows rustling my leaves
through a winters stare and frost like touch.
Darkness hides from the light of the son,
too much to do and not enough done.
Grace never given and promises unfold
stories are broken and dreams awoken.
My branches are heavy but not with my fruit,
my roots grip steady but not under foot
who will give an old beggar dressed in all black?
Who will oil a wheel that turns without fault?
To what can I dream of when fully awake?
Now all is forgiven for heavens sake
but not my own time can I find.
Always and never whispers and glares
never and sometimes spoken and looks.
Who am I but a man
growing old
a solitary oak in a midst a forest of sand.
A brooding poem, very
A brooding poem, very stark imagery, well written and a good read.
http://www.postpoems.org/authours/a.griffiths57
Thankyou
I'm glad you enjoyed the piece, it is one of my favorites and a step away from lyrics and full rhyming verse.
this is not the end, this is not the begining of the end, this is merely the end of the begining.