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The wind blew through his curly black hair as he blew into his saxophone, standing on the boardwalk listening to the sounds of the beach. He had been playing in this spot for years, and the sound to him was like an old shoe. The kind of memory that he could not throw away despite how useless it was. His saxophone case was nearly empty of the coins and bills that it usually contained. Tourist season had ended, and like the birds, everyone had migrated elsewhere for the winter months.
There was a chill on the air coming off the ocean. The man pu
by `spunj13
solitaireby ~bittertaste
In october IIby ~raun
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08 FEB 2005
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Yeah! You added my poem "imaginary gril" to your favourites, and gave some really nice feed back...read more of my poems if you like them...I'll comment on your stuff soon, it's bed time for me now...it's 4 am where I come from (South Africa)
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Come away O human child.
To the waters and the wild.
With a faery hand in hand.
For the world's more full of weeping.
Than you can understand.
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Thank you for the fav...
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=lelekelley
~charlie
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