A thousand thoughts go through my head, but most of them are left for dead.
Words unsaid or heard in time. What gives a poet his rhythm and rhyme?
Thoughts like this coming to a beat, as if walking on soft sand with one’s bare feet.
The flow feels smooth, so crisp and clean. Resonating like a wisp of a forgotten dream.
My spirit it seems to beam at the seam, with light burning bright and if it feels just right and that the time is in sight. I just might fight for the right to call you mine in this dream of dreams, as time continues ripping at the seams and as the thousands birthed before it, as I try not to ignore it
These thoughts of mine fade back to black, in to the night. Somewhere far and out of sight.
Never forgotten just left for dead, until the next time these words cross my head. 
Bond's Blurbs 
Talented writer
LikeLike
Thank you
LikeLike