Wrinkle, crinkle, pimple,
bruise;
but our sight remains, of that,
we have nothing to lose.
Or don't we, for the
irises too;
they carry a weight
we can only hope
to be able to
endure.
And they hold, the
sights
that most would so wish to forget
And they hold, the
nights
that pain took its best
bet,
and they hold all that
I
wish to forget
but my eyes, they hold on
to the pain
and regret
but the happiness too, those
treasured few,
moments so precious
that they slip out of
reach,
but our eyes are there, holding on
to the memories
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
Wrinkle, crinkle, pimple,
bruise;
but our sight remains, of that,
we have nothing to lose.
Or don't we, for the
irises too;
they carry a weight
we can only hope
to be able to
endure.
And they hold, the
sights
that most would so wish to forget
And they hold, the
nights
that pain took its best
bet,
and they hold all that
I
wish to forget
but my eyes, they hold on
to the pain
and regret
but the happiness too, those
treasured few,
moments so precious
that they slip out of
reach,
but our eyes are there, holding on
to the memories
