Poetry

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Some paths seem harmless in their own way,even at the break of day,some are laid with cobble stones,to lead one to a place called
home,front door can't say nobody's in,no voice to verblise within,
a quarries arms spreading out,to homes once lived in,some standing
out like a sentinel,they've lost their roofs,now they be just empty shell's some newer path's where people dwell,the old give way so the new can stay,that's the path where people now can lay,
GOD,praise them days;they can't be gone,since life lives on ,and
the path we find,is the path we are on,GOD,knows our days,until
all paths are none,for then we know,heaven's truly won.
Joe.

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