down the quiet roads, Spanish moss hanging, overflows,

the darkenss setting in like the folding of cloud upon sun

the street is empty, I am the only one

listen to the wind raise a fury over the earth and sky

such beautiful chaos, but if I describe it this way –

only others may misinterpret, what can words say-

sometimes they do not match my meaning;

and only seem to drift like paper aimlessly

missing every mark purposefully

caught in the grip of chaos – who sees besides me?