I would often see her walking,
always smiling, but alone.
She would pause along the footpath,
picking flowers for her home.
I would often hear her singing,
always joyful, but alone.
She would sit beside the river,
painting pictures for her home.
I would often see her dancing,
always graceful, but alone.
So angelic was this vision.
Maybe heaven was her home.
One day I saw her crying.
So sad and all alone.
Her reflection on the water.
I touched and she was gone.
©Jon.London 2010
Copyscape Protected
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
I would often see her walking,
always smiling, but alone.
She would pause along the footpath,
picking flowers for her home.
I would often hear her singing,
always joyful, but alone.
She would sit beside the river,
painting pictures for her home.
I would often see her dancing,
always graceful, but alone.
So angelic was this vision.
Maybe heaven was her home.
One day I saw her crying.
So sad and all alone.
Her reflection on the water.
I touched and she was gone.
©Jon.London 2010
Copyscape Protected
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