From an evening,
woven
through thick and thin,
trodden
with time,
forgotten.

Ha, but who remembers? Who bets on such a past for a future? Who is that loser?

--

Who wants to be like those poets who write silly stuff like the stuff above and bear the smile of a wise, senseofhumoured man when they say it was the stole they use each winter or some such entity they were referring to.

Well, you don't have to raise your hand.