0571

Marches in mazes,
the passing phases,
softly they seek,
interrupted the weak,
intentional it hurts,
filthy mind flirts,
unusual painting seen,
colours of milky green,
wiped away with a rag,
making the image drag,
the imagination gone away,
with nothing more to say,
maybe life goes ahead,
until we are eventually dead,
the tree drops a seed,
growing among shrouded weed,
a path with cracks sprouted,
voices heard shouted,
clasping hands cover ears,
hiding inside so outside disappears,
maybe we do this the same,
to avoid the unproven blame.