Wandervögel

Parts of broken records left to discard. their only purpose to warm the heart.

But now the needle won't find the start. do you hark?

Friends, or at least what they intend. all their advice is on the mend

Maybe some day i give up to contemn, in the end.

There comes a time when there's no more height to crest.

(but then who cares if you rage in my chest? you rage in my chest!)

Soles, all worn out and scattered with holes. my fingertips blackened from charcoal.

Thanks to the milemarker 'long the road. now you're told.

That some of those travelling birds never reach the south.

Others find their final home in this house.

Wise men bury their heads in the depths of the brooks

But pray that their view of the world remains crooked.

Their words are revelations, heard through glass.

At the bottom we all nurture the grass.