Into Her Deep Eyes


To read a map― 
listening to your inner voice, for 
changing the green color 
of eyes. 

I was studing you, 
in the caravan of desert, 
leaving the roots 
going nowhere. 

I will wait for the fall 
to pick up my crisp, memories 
breaking off from― 
the sad trees of life. 

Stepping stones were 
beautiful, not the feet. I might 
have erred in draping the 
people who were fake. 

Sometimes you mourn 
the vision of dying moon. 
It will not bleed― 
till you cry.



    Absolitely Exquisite..your beat one yet.i appreciatee your friendship upon this site .i often winder of you ever read my worj perhaps one day you will show me...xxoo

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