Some do it with money,
others choose jewellery and a home,
but the writer leaves his words.
Hoping in years to come
that someone will appreciate
everything he had to say.
That his words will not be forgotten,
gathering dust in a drawer somewhere,
but that someone in some distant year,
will read them and enjoy,
and then to the world declare.
That what he wrote was right,
not only for his time,
but for the future to.
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We look towards the westward wind
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For JoAnn who knows what I mean.
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I wandered through the years
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I stroll pass the pinnacles of dreams
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