THOUGHTS FROM THE OVERGROWTH

The Edge Of

A slate grey sky of a slate grey sea.

From a slate grey town.

There came a blue wind.

Sea sprayed and angry.

Into streets long trodden.

Within stone long sodden.

Castle turret and memory hills.

Purposeless jarring the bumbling peasants awash with dried up cries.

Of horrors and screams long gone.

The stained steps of a romance tour.

Misplaced drama of a, no town.

Wanders the exploits of a long departed dragon.

A symbol ripped from the stake of an enemy lookout.

Stone by stone.

By blood and mud.

Red rose a statement.

Settled and bored.

Occupants cling to the edge of damp unknown wilds.

Bad breeding knows no bounds.

Huddled up, warm eyed for progress.

Into the arms of mammalia.

Orifice gulps up seaweed and gull.

Sand dance within a cradle of adult mountain.

Echoes of laughter.

Druid stories on the wind.

Futility binds the mortar and blocks of a slate grey cling, to the growth of dreams.

A slate grey cling like a colony of whelk.

Of mussels, of snail and seaweed.

Steadfast determined with the promise of existence.

Raised amphitheatre.

A bards stage.