He bites his fingernails.
And dyed his hair and black,
And white.
And words are razors,
Close to the skin and tight.
He's thought to be high
But how high is he
To fall in a sudden fight?
Of hitch or struggling guide.
Will you come out
To save me or distress me?
Your sour sounds sank into
Something you made ignite.
He's acting rough
From what I expected
To love, hight war.
And E. S
© Copyright: Ксе Васильева, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114092705974
Свидетельство о публикации №114092705974
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