Words are callling
for thoughts yet unformed.
Rhymes are mourning,
searching their proper norms.
While ink is pouring,
shapes old & new are born.
The poem is dawning
and new feeling having sewn,
it's memory is comming home.
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Author:
lostinfantasy (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: June 26th, 2025 17:00
- Comment from author about the poem: I've written this one a long time ago. Or maybe not a long time, just last winter, but it feels like a century away. So much has happened. And now I've found it again and just though, maybe I can share it as well :-) Maybe somebody could relate to it :-) Or think I'm crazy. Both options are valid.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 1
Online)
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