So they say; I reckon for the vagabond abound; under the stony bridge of memoirs yesterday stoned from another clime, ashamed from the wonders only the vaguely understands; the vagabond is awakening from yesterday’s “thought to have been” and still he is raging in present from what happened yesterday, yet to abide,

Stilly forgotten by his own fears, he rode the light-mundane ones behold…
Blinking the above, and trying to cope as the days, so it seems; years pass him by,

Grieving with endless sigh, so lonely is the night, away with all sudden delight, so deep and foretold as the sun will chime with his endless love, a fantasy with-hold, she only shines when the rhyme becomes unfold, relentlessly he strives, underneath his stony glide,

Feathery delight turned aside from windy mites and thunder sites, roaming through grinding and strife, he knows tomorrow will be a beginning of yesterday’s might, and tomorrows another fight…