DEAD LEAVES

The road is hard to drive on with no manner of control,
the drifting lunatic twists around the pole.
Led into the ocean by the leading blind,
where the crowd gets crowded then swept out by the tide.

The critic is the enemy, laughing when you’re dead,
spray-painting “failure” till all you see is red.
Dug up by a black dog, shot down by the elite,
burn the white flag that would make you look complete.

The creeps are creeping down the ghost train,
dead leaves are blowing down memory lane.
Time waste dreaming, so stop sleeping,
to make the real world start spinning.