Children play on swings
Down in Central Park
Feeding crumbs of bread to pigeons
Grumblings in my stomach
An observation of leaves upon
The withered branches
Straining to see beyond
With the brain that inhabits my skull
For moments it appears surreal
Spinning whirlwinds of dust
Sirens in the background whine
Mist blown from the fountain by the wind
Upon my face carried by the breeze
It is inevitable that in the crux of thought
Such things would occur
Twisting its way downward into my soul
Likened unto a hammer that pounds away
At bone and marrow
Until only dust remains
It is then that I am reminded;
All things return from where they came
~Moses~
© 2007 Moses Lestz - All Rights Reserved
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