Aug 2010
A poem
is like my breath
on a windowpane,
a condensation of my soul,
developing only to dissipate,
leaving dusty ancient clues.
Fingerprints of my true name
point back at me.
is like my breath
on a windowpane,
a condensation of my soul,
developing only to dissipate,
leaving dusty ancient clues.
Fingerprints of my true name
point back at me.
Copyright 2010
*should i change point to pointing or leave as is? your opinions are greatly appreciated as well as your read :)*
*should i change point to pointing or leave as is? your opinions are greatly appreciated as well as your read :)*
