THE CURTAIN

I looked upon an alien shore.

There a dank old bronze door.

Inside was a hidious sight.

Many people in wayward flight.

Caught in the grip of bondage.

No more free to roam and forage.

Hollow eyes look at forgotten lore.

Wishing for a home on wayward shores.

It proved history a friend.

Like a hoop it repeats - NO BENDS.

A law of ancient lore and time.

The past always seems so sublime.

from my poem book - DREAMS 2