Nov 15
I am longing manifesting itself through ink-splotted pages,
right when the evening sun hits the crown the distant oaks are facing; reigning the hidden realms of forests fading. Autumn fell right through the plaster cast my heart had build through you, waiting, pending, just for another trace of touch to cave in. You would know. As I am speaking winter had long accumulated snow, not knowing if its featherlight swift should strife your skin or march right in with blizzards where only spring light would keep out the cold. Sometimes the paper fills itself with words I barely manage to rest upon, strong; strokes of blind passion passing on, onto the next, onto the next one. I sigh deeply, I blink in the distance, forlorn. You see, life had me once in its reverie, pale blue dot, green moss moth, things with no sense, things I touch through this rose-colored lense. You wouldn't know. Maybe you do but mostly you don't.
© fey (15/11/24)
right when the evening sun hits the crown the distant oaks are facing; reigning the hidden realms of forests fading. Autumn fell right through the plaster cast my heart had build through you, waiting, pending, just for another trace of touch to cave in. You would know. As I am speaking winter had long accumulated snow, not knowing if its featherlight swift should strife your skin or march right in with blizzards where only spring light would keep out the cold. Sometimes the paper fills itself with words I barely manage to rest upon, strong; strokes of blind passion passing on, onto the next, onto the next one. I sigh deeply, I blink in the distance, forlorn. You see, life had me once in its reverie, pale blue dot, green moss moth, things with no sense, things I touch through this rose-colored lense. You wouldn't know. Maybe you do but mostly you don't.
© fey (15/11/24)
