Sometimes I walk towards the bridge,
that roads over the waters,
that looks purple whenever I look from the window pane,
but that looks more blue whenever I walk towards.
And then it dresses white when I look
deep into it watching the dancing view of my face behind the trees.
Then when I touch the mysterious water,
it turns to a colourless attire.
Each time making me no difference than the first,
the things a far blossom than the withered hands nearer…
✍️Rwrites
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Author:
Rwrites (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 24th, 2024 08:00
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 21
Offline)
Comments2
Excellent write
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You're welcome
A puzzle in metaphor this poem reads well and is enigmatic
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