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Softly and gently, I swim him along the frail whirlpool of a lie, He visits like a lamp in the froth of cold forward towards but shy I remember to keep my palm onto the cold night's sheet and tell him how his would fit in, how every moment of my cold nights would burn into the arms of his unconscious sin I canst remember thy face though, o love, was the dust of snow much.? Swaying like a leaf in the wind of my poem skimming on the foam of an immortal stream, with his perfect structured fingers touching his evening cup, he flutters like a laugh from the lips of a weeping dream. A dream. A DREAM. O my.! Was this illusory? Years of long closed eyelids imagining their perfect fit The word exists the definition doesn't, Dejection over fancies is dejecting Perfection is straight where you find true love.
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May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 3:41 AM UTC
falguni
"Lips of a weeping dream"
Softly and gently, I swim him along the frail whirlpool of a lie, He visits like a lamp in the froth of cold forward towards but shy I remember to keep my palm onto the cold night's sheet and tell him how his would fit in, how every moment of my cold nights would burn into the arms of his unconscious sin I canst remember thy face though, o love, was the dust of snow much.? Swaying like a leaf in the wind of my poem skimming on the foam of an immortal stream, with his perfect structured fingers touching his evening cup, he flutters like a laugh from the lips of a weeping dream. A dream. A DREAM. O my.! Was this illusory? Years of long closed eyelids imagining their perfect fit The word exists the definition doesn't, Dejection over fancies is dejecting Perfection is straight where you find true love.
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