I like your monograph.

To all those who keep running:

The days grow short, with the future anticipation holding promise and sway.
The time grows long when that future is does delay.
The nights are combed and surrounded by the void, the void where it never snows.
The moments are related to sound, that of a small bird, whose voice just knows.

Trends from yesterday gave way to finds of silver and gold.
Wings grew tired and the once proud failed to soar or be bold.
Fashion statements just proved to be a truth in a landscape softly lit.
Feathered by aniseptic colors and redoubled efforts of the mentally fit.



Leave here a stranger.