Lomond

© Callum Sharp

Quiet on the front,
Deathly still.
The thinking man walks the moon.

Going in,
Neglecting out.
The thinking man longs for gloom.

Stones soured by cold,
Rippled waves forever dying.
The thinking man shrouded in doom.

Lost soul
A burrowed hole,
Bounce, bounce, bounce.
The ball forever rolls.