Aug 2013
The sun was hanging low, talking to the sea, talking to me.
Sinking even lower it was talking to the breeze, strained whispers to the sea.
The sun was hanging high talking to the sky, talking to my
Shy imagination.
Sinking even lower it was talking to the breeze, strained whispers to the sea.
The sun was hanging high talking to the sky, talking to my
Shy imagination.
I have no idea what this poem is about. just one of those things you have to let out.
