"caper" poems
*
Cné
I believe in love...
In a blink of an eye, a life goes by
extinguished in the end.
And all that's done returns to dust.
No omen can portend.
Yet love lives on, infecting all
and never really dies
It goes beyond the realm of man
to live in fragrant skies.
And on the spacious sea of clouds,
it waits to find a port.
And then it anchors in a soul
to caper and cavort.
Traveler
Perhaps
In the emotional beginning
When head was yet held high
Stumbling through clouds
Of bright blurry skies
Love was a foolish quest
Of paralyzing highs
And now you're telling me
Love can never die?
Cné
Translucent,
the clouds we've sailed
and golden sunsets made
Kisses that we could have had
while watching rainbows fade.
Alas, a life's too short to spend
in fathomless regret.
Perhaps the wheel will turn again
another lifetime yet.
And so, my love
the voyage goes on,
to "golden years"?
We'll see.
Until
the other side reveals
what shall become of "we".
Traveler
Indeed
A dangerous theory
I can't imagine
Love roaming free
The source of all misery
Another invisible ghost
Possessing unaware host
Surely
Love is the blood we bleed
All across time and history
Love is more than a mere key
More than a want
Love is a need...
**Cné
Traveler Tim**
*
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 10:41 AM UTC
Jellicle Cats come out tonight,
Jellicle Cats come one come all:
The Jellicle Moon is shining bright—
Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball.
Jellicle Cats are black and white,
Jellicle Cats are rather small;
Jellicle Cats are merry and bright,
And pleasant to hear when they caterwaul.
Jellicle Cats have cheerful faces,
Jellicle Cats have bright black eyes;
They like to practise their airs and graces
And wait for the Jellicle Moon to rise.
Jellicle Cats develop slowly,
Jellicle Cats are not too big;
Jellicle Cats are roly-poly,
They know how to dance a gavotte and a jig.
Until the Jellicle Moon appears
They make their toilette and take their repose:
Jellicles wash behind their ears,
Jellicles dry between their toes.
Jellicle Cats are white and black,
Jellicle Cats are of moderate size;
Jellicles jump like a jumping-jack,
Jellicle Cats have moonlit eyes.
They’re quiet enough in the morning hours,
They’re quiet enough in the afternoon,
Reserving their terpsichorean powers
To dance by the light of the Jellicle Moon.
Jellicle Cats are black and white,
Jellicle Cats (as I said) are small;
If it happens to be a stormy night
They will practise a caper or two in the hall.
If it happens the sun is shining bright
You would say they had nothing to do at all:
They are resting and saving themselves to be right
For the Jellicle Moon and the Jellicle Ball.
11.3k
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to gallop unchecked around its tract
in the Guy Fawkes National park there is a harass of them
trotting through its blue hued wends
their days are numbered in the park
park authorities want end to their spirited lark
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to gallop unchecked around its tract
to sight the wild horses in full cantering step
is exhilarating and fills one's heart with miles of pep
their hooves thundering and pelting along
to the wind's strong liberating throng
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to gallop unchecked around its tract
down the steep ravines and o'er the hills they stride
without the reins of a man holding their ranging pride
the wild horses have need of open lands to caper and pace
they are a breed which must be allowed to freely race
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to gallop unchecked around its tract
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
Oh the enjoyment
of full deployment
in lines of unemployment.
No more paper,
To cut a caper,
Might as well go ride a tapir.
No more phone calls
driving me up the walls
Ringing dinging until my skin crawls.
Freedom is my new motto
Gonna drive down to the Grotto
And have me a margarita until I'm sotto.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 12:08 PM UTC
The paper boats sail
upon the stream.
Curious like vagabonds
questing for dreams.
On they float
through bends & turns,
Over silt mountains
& valleys of fern.
Glide with butterflies,
Caper past toads.
Not a clue where
leads the watery road.
Caressing the earth,
Savoring the rain,
Drawn into the rapids,
Broken free again.
The tempest, the calm,
All the vistas unknown.
Horizons they cross.
To beyond, they've flown!
A paper boat I hold
Only one to spare
Place it in the water
A small white corsair.
She kneels beside me,
on a bed of grass.
Points at the boat
& throws me a glance.
Smiling, she asks,
"Leaving? Where to?"
"Let's find out", I say
"My boat is for two."
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC
1046
I’ve dropped my Brain—My Soul is numb—
The Veins that used to run
Stop palsied—’tis Paralysis
Done perfecter on stone
Vitality is Carved and cool.
My nerve in Marble lies—
A Breathing Woman
Yesterday—Endowed with Paradise.
Not dumb—I had a sort that moved—
A Sense that smote and stirred—
Instincts for Dance—a caper part—
An Aptitude for Bird—
Who wrought Carrara in me
And chiselled all my tune
Were it a Witchcraft—were it Death—
I’ve still a chance to strain
To Being, somewhere—Motion—Breath—
Though Centuries beyond,
And every limit a Decade—
I’ll shiver, satisfied.
5.7k
The morning finds the young lasses milking
And the young lads in the fields cutting
Rams, ewes, and lambs eat and grow fat.
The hens lay eggs while the roosters are strutting.
The sun rises up for his daily walk,
Drawing the day across the sky.
He takes his daylight with him to another place
Because the moon's time is nigh.
Evening falls across the heather
And the stars come out to dance.
The faerie folk come to life
And fill the night with their lyrical chants.
The mists on the moors swirl and caper about,
Taking rock and tree to embrace.
The faerie folk make merry and dance about
'Neath the silver of the moon's face.
They dance to music as old as time,
Melodies and rhythms from long ago.
Verses sung in ages long past,
Songs only faerie folk know.
They sing and dance under the moon and stars,
As long as the night covers them about.
But the moon and the faerie folk must go their ways
For 'tis time for the sun to come out.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 3:48 PM UTC
133
As Children bid the Guest “Good Night”
And then reluctant turn—
My flowers raise their pretty lips—
Then put their nightgowns on.
As children caper when they wake
Merry that it is Morn—
My flowers from a hundred cribs
Will peep, and prance again.
3.1k
208
The Rose did caper on her cheek—
Her Bodice rose and fell—
Her pretty speech—like drunken men—
Did stagger pitiful—
Her fingers fumbled at her work—
Her needle would not go—
What ailed so smart a little Maid—
It puzzled me to know—
Till opposite—I spied a cheek
That bore another Rose—
Just opposite—Another speech
That like the Drunkard goes—
A Vest that like her Bodice, danced—
To the immortal tune—
Till those two troubled—little Clocks
Ticked softly into one.
2.9k
I'm pouring out my thoughts on to this paper.....letting my mind free for the next caper.
I've been a superhero and a lovesick man. A few stories about putting a ring on that special woman's hand.
A story about suicide and my last ride....sound similar.....but they are not the same.....different car same lane.
Will eyes ever see this creation by me? When I look at my comments.....it says none......I'm not Drake so I'm not on one.
I guess I didn't move the crowd with my words.....if I read it to the masses would I even be heard. It's absurd that my fellow poets just don't know......they are the gasoline that helps me go......and when I blow it will be because of the fire they ignited and kept lit......
all because they didn't consider it robbery to read my shit. I apologize for that last line... but it went with the flow.....I just get frustrated when people don't leave a kind or even a bad word.......especially when I drop a piece that I think is great and I really do.....when I create it......it's definitely for me.....but I share it first with you....
The first eyes to see my baby....but you act like she's ugly .....looking at her face....and retreating in disgrace.
I guess you never met a poet who was poor ....but had expensive taste. That's why my pen stays attached to my waist.....
I wrote this poem sitting in my car after I got off of work and now I'm in the parking lot. TheTeacher penning jewels and looking to hit that jackpot......
Comments raining when I hit.......I quit! Take this pen and shove it!
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC
Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
And sair wi’ his love he did deave me;
I said there was naething I hated like men:
The deuce *** wi ‘m to believe me, believe me,
The deuce *** wi ‘m to believe me.
He spak o’ the darts in my bonie black een,
And vow’d for my love he was diein;
I said he might die when he liked for Jean:
The Lord forgie me for liein, for liein,
The Lord forgie me for liein!
A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird,
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:
I never loot on that I ken’d it, or car’d,
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,
But thought I might hae waur offers.
But what *** ye think? in a fortnight or less,
(The deil tak his taste to *** near her!)
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.
But a’ the niest week I fretted wi’ care,
I gaed to the tryste o’ Dalgarnock,
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there,
I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock.
I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock.
But owre my left shoulder I *** him a blink,
Lest neibors might say I was saucy;
My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink,
And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
And vow’d I was his dear lassie.
I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recover’d her hearin,
And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl’t feet—
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin,
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin.
He begg’d, for gudesake, I *** be his wife,
Or else I *** **** him wi’ sorrow:
So e’en to preserve the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow.
3k
Ketchup bottles have been taken off the shelves
Homes don’t even have ketchup themselves
French Fries, Hamburgers and Franks are all upset
But who in the world let?
A mystery we all must solve
We all must get involved
Look for clues in find
It’s the French Fries in who we must be kind
Let’s see of we can find any clues
We must be determined and not lose
There were traces of ketchup spills
Where there is a way is also a desired will
On the TV, there was a briefing at Heinz concerning why the ketchup was stolen
A competitor with its own brand recipe of ketchup stated, “Our ketchup is the best, and we are ready to do the test”
But will really contest?
Heinz has been around for years, but a new competitor wants to triumphed in preserver
Now how long can French Fries and other foods requiring ketchup continue in going plain?
Now the competitor being called, “ALL THE SPICES COMPANY, INC.”
ALL THE SPICES COMPANY, INC. does have a ring in its name
But what is their ingredient too whom they want us to be lame?
Now Heinz has a special blend, which they will never tell
Yet in the supermarket stores it does sell
But not knowing much about the competitor, how can they tell?
The Consumers have control in the flavor test
They will surely determine who is the best
Maybe more of less
Well after much tasting, Heinz was the victor without any effort
I am sorry to say, “ALL THE SPICES’ just couldn’t cut it
They wouldn’t have compared to even mustard
But don’t let me go there
However, just beware in who you feel is the best
Let your taste buds be the test
The French Fries can continue to have the ketchup style while competitor, “ALL THE SPICES” we be thinking on Heinz resources during while.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
Down stucco sidestreets,
Where light is pewter
And afternoon mist
Brings lights on in shops
Above race-guides and rosaries,
A funeral passes.
The hearse is ahead,
But after there follows
A troop of streetwalkers
In wide flowered hats,
Leg-of-mutton sleeves,
And ankle-length dresses.
There is an air of great friendliness,
As if they were honouring
One they were fond of;
Some caper a few steps,
Skirts held skilfully
(Someone claps time),
And of great sadness also.
As they wend away
A voice is heard singing
Of Kitty, or Katy,
As if the name meant once
All love, all beauty.
2.4k
19
A sepal, petal, and a thorn
Upon a common summer’s morn—
A flask of Dew—A Bee or two—
A Breeze—a caper in the trees—
And I’m a Rose!
2.3k
649
Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead
Came the Darker Way—
Carriages—Be Sure—and Guests—too—
But for Holiday
’Tis more pitiful Endeavor
Than did Loaded Sea
O’er the Curls attempt to caper
It had cast away—
Never Bride had such Assembling—
Never kinsmen kneeled
To salute so fair a Forehead—
Garland be indeed—
Fitter Feet—of Her before us—
Than whatever Brow
Art of Snow—or Trick of Lily
Possibly bestow
Of Her Father—Whoso ask Her—
He shall seek as high
As the Palm—that serve the Desert—
To obtain the Sky—
Distance—be Her only Motion—
If ’tis Nay—or Yes—
Acquiescence—or Demurral—
Whosoever guess—
He—must pass the Crystal Angle
That obscure Her face—
He—must have achieved in person
Equal Paradise—
2.4k
I Wanna Be A Poet
My writing is very strange,
no one has more range.
I've got my pen, in hand,
my poems are, in demand.
I use paper, it's my source,
I'm a pppppoet, of course.
I wanna be a poet,
and you can be my poetess,
I'm the best you all must confess.
Writing on the paper,
planning my next caper.
Follow me on Twitter,
on Facebook, I'm a heavy hitter.
Writing in my notebook,
figuring my newest hook.
I feel so **** *****
can't help but being flirty.
I wanna be a poet,
and you can be my poetess,
writing will always be my business.
Feeling like a here,
I used to be a zero.
Six pens on my side,
in case some get dried.
Smoking my favorite cigarette,
listening to music on cassette.
Blowing rings with the smoke,
how it ***** being so broke.
Somewhere over the rainbow,
is a *** filled with green dough.
Other poets on the warpath,
because they always feel my wrath.
I wanna be a poet,
and you can be my poetess,
my rhymes have been known to cause dizziness.
My name is Fred,
and one day, I'll be dead yo yo.
Boys Don't Cry, was a one hit wonder,
I just gave that song some poetic thunder.
I used to love that silly song,
Youtube the video, and tell me I'm wrong.
I wanna be a poet,
and you can be my poetess,
my only goal is to simply impress.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 11:21 AM UTC
There was an old man whose remorse,
Induced him to drink Caper Sauce;
For they said, 'If mixed up,
With some cold claret-cup,
It will certainly soothe your remorse!'
2.2k
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girl who rhymes
But I’ve got no rhythm tip toe around the precision of other writers
I get lost easily in the waves of patterns and structure
Rupture my skin in the process
Destroying words and phrases in the mess of my skin and blood
Dragging myself through the mud I am a jumble of words that don’t even fit together in sentences
My types of fetish’s aren’t feet or latex, but poetry
Supposedly everyone can rhyme but
My fingers can find the time from the space between pen and paper
Maybe if i cover my room in wallpaper made from failed poems
I’ll finally get there
Rip out all my hair
I’ve never successfully written rhyme worth sharing
I’ve been in this despairing state for a while
Ran miles on my tongue
Wrung myself dry from all my creativity
Found I have a bigotry towards everything I write
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girls who rhymes
I ask for an example
Sample sounds on paper
Ending up with ample amounts of couplets
But its never enough, its always going to fall short
Someone needs to take me to court I’m copying the sound of other writers
Profound thoughts never said eloquently enough
It’s rough to be a writer that doesn’t know how to write
But I’ve never been the type to give up
Cover up all my failed attempts at rhyming with free-verse
Curse me, Or even worse
Coerce me into thinking I know what I’m doing
Because whats worse than blissful ignorance
Hand my a fistful of advice and set me free
But I’ll never be the girl who rhymes rhymes
My fingers will never find the time lost between pen and paper
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girl who rhymes
Sometimes they nearly get their wish
But all dreams parish in jumbles of words in phrases
Blaze through whole journals trying to write two poems
Crumbling my own thoughts in my too fast thought process
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girls who rhymes
I still with pencil and paper
Set out on this caper
With a website that gives me words that rhyme
I’ve decided to let people get their fix
Try my hand at rhymes
Take my time
And slow down my too fast thought process
Soak up all my creativity
A rid my mind of every bigotry I ever had
Because the girl who rhymes
Will always be the girl who rhymes
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
Sights disable me by birth
Father as witness to.
Mother to teach A to Z every time
And trying well correcting my sight.
To leave school, after full fill lessons
To change my disable sight, why?
For my sight, present friends and other people,
Of book tonic, medicine plants,
Traditional treatments
And more other onetime roots,
But nothing change my sight,
At last the order coming,
Wear specs.
To run at 1st street
Saw, wore whole shop in saffron coluor,
In glass chamber, stick saffron bindi in all doll's forehead
And saffron specs covered their eyes.
Add verse displayed - buy specs
Get rusted lance free absolutely.
To reached eyes on 2nd street
The shop 'n' carpets are green,
All dolls had beard and turban
In theplank advertising - buy specs
Get sword 'n' a bottle perfume free.
In the 3rd street endered my face
Whole room yellow, front dolls, specs,
Everywhere yellow, display text be yellow,
If buy specs, wonderful wine free.
To the 4th street, move my foot
Whole floor blue like the sea,
At shop, dolls, specs, all are blue
Gospel on display board
Seat on heaven be reserve free, buy specs.
Much crouded in 5th street
From enterence and street , to shop are red
Dolls are spectrum of victims, specs are red
slogan of display plank,
Sharpen wooden spear free,
Under puchased all specs.
And stret boys call worst,
Throw ***** of guilty verse,
And much caper plays
At back, a crying noises
That 2nd street, ask a boy brokenly
Passed away whole street,
In which specs for my sight?
And which colour for specs?
I too distruct and move my leg to 6th street,
From door to everywhere crystal,
And the floor pellucid, on the street no crowd
At the shop no doll and display plank.
When wear crystal specs,to see my own me?
To know my friend, colour of appetite,
Depth of love, greatness of hope in eyes.
I pray, with pulsated heart,
And wait for specs on the 6th street.
==============================C N Kumar.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
Oh to be courted.
It's somewhat like observing
The bird of paradise tidy up.
Immaculate his display, his stage.
He proceeds to dance.
Hopelessly invested. Commited
To his caper. To her acquiescence.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 6:33 AM UTC
*
Awaken refreshed, hush the alarm, time for another caper,
cuddle with the kitty, good morning, my fuzzy lil slayer!
Feed the furballs, cereal for me, start the coffee maker,
may be a good day today, at least it looks good on paper.
Drain the main, check the mirror, what-up my _playa_—
wait a sec, is it my self-hate, or am I a little greyer?
Inhale my morning nicotine with a sugary caffeine chaser,
hazelnut and doubt, mmm, that's my favorite flavor...
Brush and shave, step into the Hypothetical Argument Simulator,
hope follows soap down the drain—oh well—see ya later!
All dressed up, glance to verify the happiness imitator,
hold my chin up high, but only for the cologne sprayer.
Front door locked, start the car, on the lookout for hidden radar,
try to outrun the bitterness, traffic jam, wish this were single-player.
Make it to work in one piece, if just the outer layer,
brain boiling beneath, my good old trusty traitor.
*
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 4:36 PM UTC
Dear last meaningful kiss,
It's hard to start this,
because long ago I was in such a bliss,
I dont know what to write,
but this cigarette in my sight,
is counting down the end of our night
The guitar is playing its final thoughts
and I reflect on the what to do and not's,
as I start to write the script again.
People stare at me as I write this aloud,
for I want everyone to know, I am not proud,
that this even exists,
but it does.
Your face is what haunts me the most.
When I stare at the coast,
fantasies of memories arise,
but vanish as I feel the falseness of lies,
creep upon me,
like a villain in a play,
but these thoughts I must put away.
They won't get me anywhere.
Except a lonely stare,
into peoples hearts that I seem to try and confide,
but in this rule book I'm writing I must abide,
and leave your side.
I dont think you get what this hurts like,
to ride a bike,
into nothingness of blank words,
that I reflect upon in past writing.
But back to the script I keep fighting,
there is no shading or lighting,
just another poem that I follow.
Dear the love that was never true,
I wonder if your writing too,
or if you even know you,
cause you like to dance around this heartbreak,
like an old soul tries to avoid youth, just for the sake,
sake of wondering what to do next.
As I write this script on my invisible paper,
I have to remember too add the hooded caper,
that's nestled in the shadows, that I frankly never see,
and add reluctantly.
I will look back and think that part wasnt necessary,
but my heart and eyes are wary,
of knowing when to put down my pen.
This will be a sad thing to write,
because night,
is sadly ending,
with the stars starting to fade,
I must abide,
with the fears that reside,
that I must tap onto this screen,
and make sure in this last hurrah, you dont seem mean.
Dear the one who use to be the spark in my nod,
I hear many applaud,
but I wont let myself smile, for this love story shouldn't have ended,
or maybe it hasnt just yet, and just has bended.
Mind is amended,
the wrong doings of past fames,
I can remember the actors I write, but not their names.
As I put my script into print,
and watch the masses on their screen,
"I must say I hate the ending myself,
but it started with an alright scene."
From the heartbroken kid,
with love.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
You don't even know
what a love poem is.
I'll show you,
here and now,
a love poem
is a rose
and a rock,
a love poem
is a robbery,
a love poem
is dropping Neruda to your girl
and thinking about the next caper
when she's not there,
a love poem
is thinking your girl
is yours
that she's a girl
in the first place,
a love poem
is a lie
just like
me saying I'd never leave
was a lie,
a love poem
is remorse,
a love poem
is hatred
of both the inside
and the outside,
a love poem
is me seeing through you
right to your heartbeat
and punching
you
as you sit exposed,
a love poem
is **** in an *******
all of me
made to hurt you,
a love poem
is ****
and the ensuing
yeast infection.
A love poem
is like trying to put a band-aid
on an ulcer,
a love poem
is a lot like love,
if love was watching cartoons
on ****
and thought
it saw the Holy Trinity
as Ed, Edd, and Eddy.
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 8:28 PM UTC
Drink up the radiation
Subhuman viral nation
That or starve in skeleton cars
Chewin' on lettuce and candy bars
It's a caper world but there's no dancing
Skippin' like a child? Prepare for the violins
An interlude of electric tubes
Pushin' you closer to the cube
Tinted windows beg for bullets
And she makes *** feel like school
I've climbed the mountains, crawled in the caves
Still can't tell the veins from the beige
Still don't know if I'm better off in Nod's nowhere
Or Pan's wonderland of the living dead
Don't talk much except to my shaky fingers
Nibble nimble, spin a spindle, see the symbols, give a little
I've got a man who lives under my tongue
He fixes all my cavities
And when the paycheck comes
He sits atop the pink carpet-
His anti-gravity
I had a dream-weaver
But now he's vacationing
Somewhere in Himalayan Mountain territory
He's been there for two moons
And I doubt he'll ever leave
He sends me postcards and fancy little things
I put em' in a cigar box, hoping one day I'll see wings
****** was eaten by maggots
Before he took the helm
Insanity breeds anti-gravity
Life breeds cruel leaders
Forget divide and conquer
It's swarm and swallow
Tools of the revolution
Intravenously protrude you
Same In Nazarene
Spit In the Name of me
Go limping with a tishbite in the Cherith
Stating the obvious facts of Sin
Livin' only for lunar limbs
And Bailey's beads
Screaming,
"My God!
It's full of stars!"
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 9:37 PM UTC
i
Off in the beaten path
An Echelon of secret tribal's;
I pirouetted with them in plumage
Mine queen showed up, just on arrival.
ii
Her timing was perfect
As tis she watched me caper;
Me and mine Reyna's amour'
Like tambourines, shook with ancient shaker's.
iii
Hot coal ember's
Igneous in ourn chest's;
Ourn pulmonary arterie's
Bracketed, by her tribesgirl dress.
iv
We were gladden
Betwixt the wilderness;
Under mango leaves
Jane seduced me, equatorial phene's.
v
Whilst the darkness wore down
And the tribesmen went to sleep;
Me and mine protector
In the dusk, disappeared, into eachother's soul's to keep.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC