You shut to it―
the window, on watching
a row of walking stones
without feet.
Pouting,
scowling―
in a mile of tears.
(A pink lotus spills
the colors on water)
Let me talk
to my wilderness. The
script was incomplete
in shadows of greyhounds.
You crawl on the grass to find a four-leaf clover.
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 10:47 PM UTC
You shut to it―
the window, on watching
a row of walking stones
without feet.
Pouting,
scowling―
in a mile of tears.
(A pink lotus spills
the colors on water)
Let me talk
to my wilderness. The
script was incomplete
in shadows of greyhounds.
You crawl on the grass to find a four-leaf clover.