The look she gives.
In my direction.
A sign of something to change.
My heart is a choice.
The pain I feel.
The tugging and pulling.
Strain to ask a fateful question.
A step I must take.
I see her their.
And then she’s gone.
The procession is made.
With flowers of death.
I look upon her lifeless face,
and shed my tear of love.
-
Author:
Alfred Lord Tennyson (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 12th, 2018 07:21
- Category: Love
- Views: 12
Offline)
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