This is not a poem
And it is long...
And I am somewhat glad
to be home among the sunshine...
I felt the cold of insignificance,
where eyes used to meet...
She sighed in prose
And wept in silence...
Street lamps burn the night away as moths fly...
The wistful air in dance and play, trailing...
Do not unveil the
wound of errors...
Poetry follows me in sleep,
trailing down snowy banks...
I dreamed of you at nights,
I sleepwalked you in the daylights...
I ran from you,
a skittish yearling...
If I’m not all in
You can surely count me out...
Two voices clash in my mind
One pure and true, one less kind...
Rate me, oh please do rate me
Five stars or more if you please...