THE LOST SCRIPT
The westerfields winds
Gush on all ends
in the meadows,
Through the corridor
Past the door.
The legendary dome,
Stands in the wake of time!
And now....... thy knoweth
Not, the part thy seeketh
It's black and bleak
Beyond a streak
Of all onus occasioned on Horatio or Homers.
Like the rock of edges
The easterlies sing
About the script that sweeps
through the heath when
we planted the blue cloth on the moon
last fall..... at a time of lose!
Mokua Nicholas
YOU ARE READING
road to nowhere.... somewhere...
PoetryIt's an agreed coalition of the willing! Airlines agreeing to feed the "esteemed travellers" with miniature stuff, nations hoarding gas and water to pass a UN resolution at Newyork, Geneva, Nairobi and Vienna. We are all playing "house" .
