the words turn to blur
every voice fades
to white noise
dew wet trousers on
an early kneeling morn
chapped lips imagine
kisses in chill mists
dreams are made of
morns made like these—
the smell of apples
drifting in
the words turn to blur
every voice fades
to white noise
dew wet trousers on
an early kneeling morn
chapped lips imagine
kisses in chill mists
dreams are made of
morns made like these—
the smell of apples
drifting in
Leave a comment. Markdown use is permitted.