I love and haunt the wastelands,
the rundown, out of the way lands;
down by the docks and abandoned piers,
out on a lonesome, windswept jetty;
warehouse row or the rail yards
and ruins of every type.
I know these places for what they are,
forgotten by some
but never empty.
Always full of dreams and memories past,
of what was wrought by man.
There you will find me
walking and thinking,
communing with the wind
that blows through my soul,
like a stiff November breeze.
So it is with my heart;
I love the forsaken,
the lost and alone
aching for that gentle touch.
They make the best lover’s,
struggling to release their inner flame.
Can you see them?
I can hear them
singing their own songs
with rough and ready voices,
fading in the distance
until only the melody remains.
Deux photos spectaculaires pour aller avec des mots incroyablement sensibles ! La première part dans mes favoris car "sometimes drinking
communing with the wind that blows through my soul, like a stiff November breeze"