The poets tell of the future, by the magic of rythm and rhym.
To some we listen and to some we do not,
The truth in the poems we seem to have forgot.
"Where is my Daddy?" A young child cries.
Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies.
Peace is whats needed as sunset nears,
we want to see sunrise as tommorow appears.
Few are the masters of their own fate, fewer are masters of time.
copywright Matthew A. Summers
an ancient tinkling laughter is drifting from the dell
Autumn leaves blown into the air, drifting slowly down
Oh so softly they alight on the frosty ground,
Morning mist rises slow, lit by sun's rise first beam,
the waters of reality shimmer, touched by a soft grar gleam...
Copywright Matthew A. Summers