tracks we followed the tracks of the old lines
through scrubland,
wasteland,
forgotten places.
A dead area
where cigarettes and philosophy
our constant companions,kept our minds
edged and keen.
at night,alcohol dulled the senses
and the pain of life.
and now as i look down that far land
i wonder,if like the old lines,
i will rust and fade away
become no more than memory
and waste land
|