The old man tells a tale, He speaks of wind and blinding hail He talks and talks and talks, And lights his cigarette. Oblivious to the sign, “For sale or to let.” I ask where he went And on what road to travel. He merely replied, “This tale is to be said And I’ve been nowhere yet.” He draws out a rope, And starts to unravel. And starts to sob. “Whence did you travel?” By that sign, “For sale or to let.” There sat no person. And on the ground, Only gravel.
Not my best, not my worst, a bit of abstract poetry. Enjoy, if anyone sees this.
