Holding the glass for bottoms ups,
waiting on the balcony of thoughts,
the cure is done,
the burning is fun,
rise of amour, now,
what for?
Sweet spring,
why did not you arrive,
when the past days stood holding,
rough winds at high tide once,
and at low tides on the other.
Sicken with promises,
visions of hope.
Hours of wait,
till faint, the fall,
the leaves torn
from the arms of mighty shadows
all by themselves, all alone…
And so now what for,
more colours or what more,
after done of embracing,
the warmth of the prettiest barren hours of best times…
✍️Rwrites