Every life, shall meet death. Every breath crosses that bridge Every autumn leaf falls bereft. See all in its burning leafage. Oh diamond sparks burn inside
In childhood, I was a non-believer. Though, demons seemed many: Odd miracles occurred—perhaps So I consider what the local priest Says; at Saint Willibrords to be true.
The things we did were quite insane. But that’s how joy came to pass… As we cut the turf and made a bridge Out of lush green; meadow grass. Knowing only all too full well nothing
What will be the new, Black? Will it be Blue, Green or Orange? Or something truly obscene In a paisley, polysynthetic; dream. Will there be ponchos? Or turtle necks Or denim, dungarees
