The Wasteland.

[in****]

The clouds are moving forward.
Rain wears the stone walls down
where the worms have carved fine mazes
in the trees that hit the ground.
And though I'm getting closer,
I am not homeward bound,
through the hills that are eroding
like my soul this time around.
The clouds are moving forward
where the terrace turns to sand.
Past the worms that have died
in the trees that fell upon the land.
And though I'm getting closer
I know if I stop and stand
I'll start sinking in the sorrows
where my heart breaks on command.
The clouds are moving forward
casting me in silhouette.
They guide me from our orchard
that I failed with such regret
that I'm barely crawling closer
But death hasn't claimed me yet
on the road to gaining closure
in the wasteland where we met...

[FatFreddy]

I like it.

For some unknown reason it makes me think of the ancient Romans and amphitheaters, don't ask me why it's probably the worms. Then again my imagination runs unrestrained and rampant most of the time, rampaging through the corridors of my mind without hindrance or heed.

Got any more Chief?