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Bill Cantrell
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There is no depth to the end of each day,
And yet, this flesh is longing for home
This dead end road has no street sign,
As a poet becomes undone
Childhood dreams and fantasies,
In each sunset they all pass by
All my poems are but grains of sand,
Which irritates my eyes
Where will the wind choose to carry my soul,
As the sun goes to drying my bones?
Why is it that in the midst of my friends,
I feel so all alone?
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