When my dreams have their way
And the streets are lined with gold
Where the fortunes of good faith
Are not always locked behind gates
Like the stories that we’ve been told
Now in the cold hard light of day
Amongst those whose souls are sold
I wander like a lost homeless waif
But I can be patient for what awaits
We will see what life stories unfold
Stoic Poetry
Through The Cracked Window (Revisited) 