Clumsy ink from a feathered quill,
spreads a bit, and then it's still.
I'm not sure if you'll understand,
but I'll sing it for you, so you can.
Laughing lines from fingers stained,
the loss of ink is but a gain,
when I tend to remember smiled sighs
memories of crinkling eyes.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 12:32 AM UTC
Clumsy ink from a feathered quill,
spreads a bit, and then it's still.
I'm not sure if you'll understand,
but I'll sing it for you, so you can.
Laughing lines from fingers stained,
the loss of ink is but a gain,
when I tend to remember smiled sighs
memories of crinkling eyes.
