By Tom H. Brooks 3


Blinding white winter morning
sunlight like daggers
in my tired eyes.
Empty streets
empty head-
I trudge along
in my clothes from the previous night,
filled with debaucheries
and excess,
without direction or meaning,
but I keep walking anyway,
keeping pace with drums
that only I can hear,
following dreams
that only I can seek,
climbing mountains
that seem to appear just for me…




(The above artwork is by me, but it`s a copy of Georges Rouault,  Who Does Not Paint Himself A Face?…)




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