Poetry

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Life  is captured,or who can capture it;defined in time at some vacant lot,
surrounded by where still is not,lone Soul sits down in the middle,amidst
the cold November Air,Mister Frosty wait's out the evening;a fire lit with
some winter's kit,the open fire emits the heat to someone better on his
makeshift seat,unaware of another seated in the upper deck,passing by
that vacant lot;untroubled by the traffic flow,no matter where it went,
lone Gent seemed content;early evening gave a glance away,both Man and
fire saw the Frost expire,short journey told of a tale now old,still any
place reappear's in time,so easy then to combine;just a story told at
last,gone past no guess an event with time's impress,amen said yes,
rembered no less ,express.
Joe.

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