an olds mans ravings

Dreaming I write on golden parchment
To die is my goal… a vampires kiss
This thatch-covered hole
I wonder on “times” reasoning
Such a weak seat of ideas and inspirations
Fit for the silent dream
Hours turned years
I’m old and forgetful
Yet the bamboo holds me still
Hard, dry pit I curse this creation
Yet you served me my fair share
I guess there is a spot for goals