As the wind blows,
It rolls with the memories,
Memories of the past,
Which neither rust nor dies,
But brings the hurtful spike of life,
As the pine tree grew in water,
So did the weasel,
Like diesel so rich,
A lich or snitch is worse,
Lost for the days,
Life is a misery,
To all I leave a mark,
To find it is not the answer,
But to deliver it from pain,
For all will fall and never rise,
Thus will be the motion,
For all roads leads to a main road,
For its destiny is fortold by fate,
That will be the end.
© Mr.T.Hadzizi