Walking along a crowded lane
Rubin spoke of a song old
Lost in the babble of pain
Found in solitude; ’twas gold
Most precious to him away
From the drone of strangers,
Who whispered through hay
Impelled his mind into a fray
Divided into multiple straws
And peering eyes past shades
Of white and gold and black
Into the groves and then fades.
Ink Idle 
Leave a comment