The road goes on
For mile after barren mile.
The trees are dying like my dream
In this hollow land without a soul.
The crows with skeletal feet
Grip branches devoid of leaves
And turn their heads to watch
As I pass below; in warrior garb.
My armour is faint hope,
My shield illusion
And the phantoms of the road
The companions that travel with me.
While the birds
Sit in judgement high above
Their cawing laughter
Following me.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Made of sticks and stones 