There is no depth to what is not
And yet, this void is howling for a home
A dead end road has no street sign,
As the poet becomes undone
Childhood dreams and fantasies,
In the sunset, the rider must ride
All of my poems are but grains of sand,
Which irritates my eyes
To what end does the wind sing it’s song?
As the sun is bleaching the bones?
Why is it it that in the midst of my friends,
I feel so all alone?
Running Empty
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