Silent things are not for conquering
The slopes that rise and fall With our breath between them Are a sihloutte of green hips On the horizon: Suspended across the skies In an effortless sprawl, They are wild thighs To the wondering mind As a pen is to paper The incarnation of daydreams.
An indulgent slur of exasperated egoism and every day self-inflation/deflation which I will probably edit forever
Are these clothes the colour of my insides? Are yours?
I have a vision of the shapes and words needed To say that I remember when we perched on secret ledges; The edges of a branch never broken but bonded By the pledges we made in the night time, To fly together. The sky saw us dance with stars and sing a salute, Farewell to […]