Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jan 2012
e r s t w h i le
the sounds i sought
cupped palms to cradle
The Goldest Hour
-each fi re f ly
sy ll a ble
though lit in
your eyes,
could not measure nor hold

Words are evanescent.
Pay heed to my soul.
mûre
Written by
mûre
601
     mûre, Timothy, Brandon and ---
Please log in to view and add comments on poems