Foreign Times / Made

I took a walk down stone paths old, And found that most a story’s been told

I turned to trace my own steps back; I found none else there to tell this about

I thought I’d look both here and there, Perhaps I would catch a sole voice by ear


But a tap once soft upon my spine,

Now require I expand on who I am.

Sure of a time whence I could not tell time

Beholding a vase that seems never mine

The train e’er seen but who knows all about?

The day there driving yet hanging around


I seem kinetic; driven, moved

Where I am, My! Some shift should be too

But when I stop to think this through, 

It’s me, the wings; The feet, is you.

To rise is much, does it not seem?

But the flying, It’s for you.


Rest now, dear; 

It’s not all dust;

There’s still some to see, 

Even just farther up.


For if in this stride we both would not abide,

And panting frantic am I in the reach;

Then carry on with gust I shall,

In hope we both come to what is real.

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