poetic scribble by Bob Axell 2009
You appear like an image
Vivid vision of days
Still is yet unfinished
The wind blows it away
And all hope diminished
Glistens in shades of grey
Listening to the whispers
The voices and they say
"There is a time not suitable"
"There is a place so cold"
"And do not be deluded"
"The world is growing old"
"Slowly earth is withering"
"Is this what I've been told?"
"A prison full of little things"
"Things that slowly load"
We're up to our necks in chatter
We're up to our waists in water
We're up to our heads in matter
Of death, dedication and slaughter
I can no longer hear the laughter
That echos over fields of green
The world that we knew has been shattered
The world that we know is unseen
The future is uncalled for
It falls behind dark walls, the borders
The rest it rests in gods grim might
Away from our human humane sight
The past is a clear rearview
The present is as clear as air too
But the future is like a bank of mist
Still, it feels like I exist