My thoughts of her, each so nimble,
and each the feather upon a dove
And as they pluck from their root,
they might fall onto thought-soil,
or into wishing well
Each tip the sharpest of spades
And with such rearing point I imagine my bliss
Feather pen etching onto tissue paper
Searing with truth through which there lies,
the poem of my affection
Concrete within a score of willingness and longing,
A crux through which her breath reigns over my speech
she sings-
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
My thoughts of her, each so nimble,
and each the feather upon a dove
And as they pluck from their root,
they might fall onto thought-soil,
or into wishing well
Each tip the sharpest of spades
And with such rearing point I imagine my bliss
Feather pen etching onto tissue paper
Searing with truth through which there lies,
the poem of my affection
Concrete within a score of willingness and longing,
A crux through which her breath reigns over my speech
she sings-
