Tuesday, July 26, 2005


Neil Young plays.
Seagull calls.
Windblown grey chop
reflecting silver sky.

A cool breeze blows
lake-scented air:
tannic water and algae
mixed with outboard exhaust.

A lifetime sitting lakeside
while tourists come and go
ties my forty-five years
to a youth of long ago.

Who knew I'd be here yet,
still pondering life,
still seeking answers
to questions no one is asking?

Why does my eye for life's beauty
leave me feeling so empty?
Guess it's true that visions of zanado
ruins you for everything else forever.

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