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mark-john-junor-1Poems
small hand delve into the waters seeking the grand design and his place in it spend your days frugally and thin of heart to what gain thous endeared to your fleet foot handsome pretense loose hope in the everlasting winter of your indifference small hand offered meek and tentative but in the midst of torrential rain it goes without the reply it so needed withdrawn slowly as if to speak to the thought am i so unworthy in your eyes am i so disdained is this the end of my days have the words finally escaped me never to return the pretty poet holding his hand whispers to him across the miles that he need not feel so alone she dances in her shower and dreams of him that tender thought that hopeful and giving heart from far west helps him endure recalls to him that this need not be the end of his road need not think tomorrows joy is unattainable pretty poet he cannot always find the words sometimes for all he wishes to say his pen lacks the words except thank you from the bottom of his heart reprise: at last at the end of your days embrace the offered hand know that you are the first to tread that lonely wood
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Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
pretty poet
small hand delve into the waters seeking the grand design and his place in it spend your days frugally and thin of heart to what gain thous endeared to your fleet foot handsome pretense loose hope in the everlasting winter of your indifference small hand offered meek and tentative but in the midst of torrential rain it goes without the reply it so needed withdrawn slowly as if to speak to the thought am i so unworthy in your eyes am i so disdained is this the end of my days have the words finally escaped me never to return the pretty poet holding his hand whispers to him across the miles that he need not feel so alone she dances in her shower and dreams of him that tender thought that hopeful and giving heart from far west helps him endure recalls to him that this need not be the end of his road need not think tomorrows joy is unattainable pretty poet he cannot always find the words sometimes for all he wishes to say his pen lacks the words except thank you from the bottom of his heart reprise: at last at the end of your days embrace the offered hand know that you are the first to tread that lonely wood
mark-john-junor-1
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mark-john-junor-1
59/M/American
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
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