Walking down dark streets.
Darker thoughts follow him.
Where does he begin?
No story left,
The warp and weft,
Of life he wears,
His cares in every stitch,
Yet rich with ideas.
He looks for ancient patterns,
In a tidal wave of ancient passions,
And turns another corner of the street.
His search goes on,
Once again on the run.
To what, from what.?
The house,
Where it all happened.
Passed by on the way to school.
Waking, sleeping dreams,
That rule.
A stain never washed away
Grows more livid by the day
Revenge or sorrow
Who can say
Perhaps its both
The memory still vivid.
