Poetry

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There is a closeness to life,and of itself;retains that right,some reasons
sound their own entrance
ever new,or old when true;regardless what life will tell,so many squares down through
tthe years.Did not know there was somebody in the Shop,but the bell did ring when
tthe front Door was opened in;it seemed as thoughsilence did itself retain an
iinner sting,a simple episode from time's passed on;an ended phase and history
did itself just gaze,not major just minor,in early daylight's sight;some thought's
from past,how the years can last,its time's very own defining,an inner sight'sobverse
obverse.now terse.
dnJoe.

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