I hang on his every word
Like a wriggling worm From the beak of lovely bird
He's the safe I'll never crack
The elusive dancer covered in black
He terrifies and confounds me
And I don't even think he see's
He is the closed book that I can never open
All the words I wish to say but can't be spoken
He's the poem, that I can never write
For me, he's the moon glowing at night
My closed book, who's stories I'll never know
Because I'm the desert, and he's the snow
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC
I hang on his every word
Like a wriggling worm From the beak of lovely bird
He's the safe I'll never crack
The elusive dancer covered in black
He terrifies and confounds me
And I don't even think he see's
He is the closed book that I can never open
All the words I wish to say but can't be spoken
He's the poem, that I can never write
For me, he's the moon glowing at night
My closed book, who's stories I'll never know
Because I'm the desert, and he's the snow
So maybe, just maybe, it does snow in the desert;) He said it does. Sometimes.
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