poetry and sometimes other things
15 December 2015
I suspect You have not so much spilt, as flung,
the ink of Your Heart across the evening sky.
The night swallows it to make dreams of the dawn.
Truly, some days seems the setting sun the sole consolation of my life, yet on more perfect days, I have early drawn tight the blinds against the glorious sight of the fading light.
Truth can be a
Love never lacks
This is recent, I just enjoyed playing with the blue again.
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