Invisible scars.
The blades of your hands.
Repeating old lines of my own.
The well-hidden sense.
The hopeless romance.
The eyes that could gift me the dawn.
The days go by.
Three months till July.
Love, listen, I'm honestly striving
To perpetuate
My fortunate fate,
Still learning the art of surviving.
But I am too weak,
Frail fingers do seek
A chance to entwine for a moment
with yours, then lose hold
And feel this strange cold,
Indulge in a beautiful torment.
The same tragic theme.
I've reached the extreme.
It seems I'll be waiting for ages
Of riddles and signs,
Of love fixed in lines,
Of counting papers and pages.
In Lines
© Copyright: Риа Эйприл, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114112205300
Свидетельство о публикации №114112205300
Рецензии