Hobgoblins in the sand..

Oh well wisher

Fisher of men

Hoarder

And ship ashore

Fabrics in flames

New storm unleashed

Shoes trash badly

Unleashed wild dog

Running free.

Shall you and I?

Touch the golden dust behind the sky

And not by clever means do anything

Yet never wear a thong,  but bounce into a wall of thorns

To be the quite and not scream then envision the dream of wonderment

This to was thongless, yet perfectly silent.

Strange Times indeed.

Years go by and hands wave

It is sadly okay as they fade.