big brown eyes gazed their vision upon the passing cars and the multi-colored buildings
in his hazy mind maybe he could think about the bike trails that ran through the thick forest of his imagination
he'd stare up at the roof with a mood full of a joyful blankness
noting that their isn't much to be happy about
but refusing to squander the day away by being miserable
and in his youthful recollection
he could remember falling asleep in his seat
to be carried out to the house upon the hill by the woman that bore the mark of life
YOU ARE READING
Crossing the dark moon
PoetryIt is up to every man to choose what path they follow. Whether it be in fairness or out of spite, the choice is up to the individual at the end of the road
