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| Open Poetry #14 |
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Untitled |
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John Yaws Senior Member
since 1999-10-09
Posts 860Texas 
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Untitled Maybe I’m the man who sees, What no one else observes. Another faceless also-ran, A nameless also-serves. But from my dimmest memories- There’s been a voice that cried, Onward, ever onward- Till you reach the other side. The grass looks so much greener- Over on the neighbors land. The golden opportunities... Never seem to fit my hand. I’ve always had a habit, Of looking into eyes To try to find their secrets... Try to understand their cries. Call me drifter, vagabond- Or call me what you please- I’ll live life to the fullest, Till my wanderings finally cease. And may my words give meaning To my peers with wanderlust. Until we lay our armor by... To rest beneath the dust. |
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| © Copyright 2001 John R. Yaws - All Rights Reserved | |||
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ethome Member Patricius
since 2000-05-14
Posts 11858New Brunswick Canada |
Wel no one's getting out of this one alive so you might as well live life the way you want to and help your fellow man everytime it's possible! Wonderful write! |
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Watersign6 Senior Member
since 2001-05-25
Posts 823Hurricane,WV |
well written,bravo! i enjoyed it very much |
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Denise
Moderator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-08-22
Posts 22648 |
Very well expressed, John! |
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