Upon The Doorstep
When I am old and the hour of death is close at hand I shall count the falling grains of sand and traipse in dance a book of dreams to lie along the winding stream
I shall confess each sin upon the sky and drown the guilt of days gone by.....
held in his aged hands
lie folded with silken lines
one thousand poems
Copyright © Rick Parise | Year Posted 2025
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