Ochre

There is clay under my feet.
It is yellow and barren like me,
but it makes for good ink.
So I take a sorry seat,
and write of all I see,
of all the things I dare to think.
What strangely things we meet,
that dreams congeal to be,
that lead us to the brink,
that causes ships to sink,
down, down, down into the clay,
where fantasies may be what may.

-o0o-