It was built whenever been there since I was a tike like scribes left us fat books that contain the odor of times forgotten filled with withered leaves

these that sang themselves disgusted with rhyme poet vagabondian airs beats of a different kind

a home for homeless thoughts for the thoughtless inspiration for the weathered

"come out of the cold, I will warm you with stories old as time"

retreat complete and sweet along the Oregon Trail with an Oliver Twist and lost forever Gone With the Wind

fetch me candles tall in an array of locations all about my traveled worn casing

bring about a cover to beat and smother cold while I discover the limits of the big bang Revelations Islands in the stream and Winner take nothing

wander I will the little art of returning again always under my hat or up a sleeve only return different a few more lines letters of gray hair stuffed in my pouches

come on alone the road a phone a call your best oldest friend its ringing why are you still in bed sleepy head?

Comments

quillpena Feb. 16, 2012 @ 7:19 p.m.

If I could, I'd just sleep through most of life; unfortunately, responsibilities ensure that this will never happen.

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nan shartel Feb. 22, 2012 @ 8:03 p.m.

i don't see any of ur newer poems posted kameronj...was up with that..u may have to get in touch with the web administrator about it...

i wanna hear the stories about the Oregon trail homey ;-D)

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