Through green iron gates,
stands he,
spearing from the ground.
Giant mother shades the grass,
tombs of stone protrude through the moss,
and I sit and listen to the man that sings with the dead,
Shaded-eyed and boots of black,
a twang that sit upon the bird song,
a voice that breaths through the wind,
the head strong school boys stop for but a second,
and I sit and listen to the man that sings with the dead,
flowers of blue fade,
I bet a pretty picture,
one writer one singer,
a place of such creativity,
in a land of complete misery,
one write one singer,
so I'll stand,
and leave the man who sang with the dead.
About the Creator
Fred Hermes
This wind is sweeping my existence into a common misconception of procrastination. I will give my own reality to exist in the dream I have conjured; till death do us part. Faithfully Fred.
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