In like Jazz or Classical music, one must learn to see the patterns. Fluid words rise to crest upon the crashing of waves. My Poetry is an Art form and not a writer's thoughts.

rain shadows
crosses
walking man
lost
in dreaming rhyme
nailed across the face
of time
shattered
and not
echoes call
to memories
as they fall
footprints across
dried concrete
if a man
ignoring defeat
dreaming
the morning song
drifting
within the short of long
as all wind bleeds
lost seasons

- jude