fools gold

Fools Gold

 

The roads were lined

with false promises, which

numbered as autumn leaves.

Withered, decaying. Hopes receding.

 

Another twist, one more turn

meaningless signposts abound.

Intuition leads the way

as instinct leaves sour doubts.

 

The way comes steeper, rockier.

Hope becomes the fuel

of this aged machine.

There's no pot of gold.

Just a rainbow.

 

 

Devon Newman © 2008

photo by gilli mcgrouther ©2008

Done