He walks in the morning, surrounded by the things that he deems fit to symbolize peace.
He sees the birds that fly in great packs flit across the sky.
He sees the orange tint of the sky appearing just above the tops of the cliffs that tower over the fields that lie below them.
He smells the dew on the white flowers that grow in thickets along the dirt road.
He always looks East and wishes he didn't have to sense the ocean that is a dark beacon to the West.
It's a rare morning when clouds dot the sky, whispering along the stratosphere.
This walk he takes seems always perfect, and it's nice to see the old man on his bike and the lady with the two black pugs.
He likes knowing that once he reaches his place he can sit on the bench by the backstop and watch the fog melt away off the cliffs.
It makes the clock tick a bit slower until he knows he must turn and sail into the terror that he must navigate until the pay comes on the 11th.
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Poems
PoesiaA description can say a lot, and it can say a little; so can a poem. Guess you'll just have to find out what it's gonna say.
