I await the tree of wisdoms fruit to grow.

The horizon is a wavering constant
Forever beckoning wherever we may be.
Outside, slow, slumbersome clouds
Roll into the valley green, leaving me
Searching for a meaning to the dreams
That keep me awake at night un-sleeping.

I await the tree of wisdoms fruit to grow.
I await to know the seeds of tomorrow.

I await winters snow to thaw,
As here I remain clawing
At the boundaries of sanity
That keep the ghost of vanity
A shadow ever present
As opposed to a fading
Memory in decent.

poem by David Lacey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!