Michael D Nalley
17 years ago
Thou Wilt
The leaves of a tree,
in Autumn I see,
are ever so slowly dying.
Their colour is changed,
I'm sure they feel pain,
yet their beauty in death
starts me crying.
Amid the graveyard rustle
of their fallen friends,
I choke,
and think of you again.
You drank in sorrow
to no tomorrow,
as I watched your face
like seasons change,
until it came to Winters pain.
Kevin Murray
Good poem Kevin
"Very often, that things which we hate about others are exactly the things we don't like about ourselves, externalized, which I think it when the word Hypocrite comes into useful practice as an insult."
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