Sleep, what a nostalgic reminder.
The time when vigilance was low.
Easy prey for grasping dark.
Never fall to its grace.
I was taught another path.
Take the high road, was heard.
Floating like smoke from the garden.
Hazy days.
Tough as nails, at least that's what we spoke.
Here at the end, hardly a word.
Each one staring into the void.
Ghostly.
Only a few fellows against this unspeakable terror.
holed up in a shack.
we dug out trenches, made fast repair.
flimsy fences for battered souls.
Solace will come with the sun.
If only this world would turn faster.
At least something's turning.
Door handle.
Building bridges is never fun.
Each one over river run
Pillars stuck into the stone.
Mossy overgrown.
Bricks are faded, worn to dust.
Each nail also turned to rust.
Bridge has fallen to disrepair.
Now the roads crack and tear.
Man has come with pick and shovel.
Tamed wild river.
Each shiny rivet a testament.
To double lane highways.
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