Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sep 2015
Our song wasn't the kind that you hear on the radio
It didn't have words
There wasn't guitars or any kind of instruments
Our song comes on at midnight
He takes me by the hand
Out in his ranch
The crickets chirping
The leaves shaking
The wind laughing
The very dirt beneath our feet whispering
The moon cheering
Nature was our song
Our burning passion for one late in the night.
The Broken Poet
Written by
The Broken Poet  Texas
(Texas)   
251
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems