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I pointed to a bird; flying to leave- And I think:
The swim I was most in was you, gladly.
And He thinks: Until the eyelashes, came,
of the unknown, I way my path around.
Words of a god: this door must remain close!
I touched your bottom across my hands,
moving sand to the little constructors of your
Freedom.
On the embark upon a valley:
Chove me a Nest,
Crave me a Rest.
This door must remain close.
Open the door, under the cosmos,
Sky Village of artificial Dark,
like the light Creed in our glass eyes.
On our heinousness path can we weight such heft?
Copyright © Quiet Speaker | Year Posted 2018
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