Weeds

By Phil Gioldasis
Days gone never to return.
Nights a cloak and dress await.
Fiery fervid lour angers a lost.
Worldly mannered speaking politician.
Fears of trembling isolate flower.
In beds of colored grasses.
Mixed with tones and eternity.
All thus like prelates decision making.
None for feeling thus never asking.
Isolate never thus been.
Or naive like weeds growing wayside.
Never similar to a worthless character