Old Paths
Old paths
Invisible to the eye
Crisscross the globe
Slowly fade from memory
As travellers cease to travel
Settle down
Forget their past
Overhead aircraft fly
It’s not the same.
Writers Wild
Just slam some words down
Whatever’s in my head
No rhyme, no reason
Nothing that I’ve said
A stream of uncensored memory
Or a stream of meaninglessness
Full flow, full throttle
I’ve no idea what it means, I confess
Just let them escape
Each one a wayward child
A tumble, a jumble
All writers should be wild.
