Gold Line

I like to talk sometimes,

in my mind’s wild,

like in a storm,

to search, for peace.

like if it’s in the center,

of a hurricane.

I am a fisher,

waiting for good times,

but not just waiting,

still searching,

better fields.

Oh, all me,

old dreams,

dreams of dust,

falling trought my hand,

in a silent wind,

called time.

What I am wasting,

what am I not doing,

sitting in my own desert,

watching dust,

and dust,

in a hot cold night,

while instead of just the dust,

shall I search,

to find my own line,

a line for my own gold.