do you ever catch a feeling,
sharpened on the conscious being,
facing tides come mildly on the shore?
I'm not that sure.
Random lad returns a smile.
His summer ends, his autumn's mine.
His sudden rush of shyness is a debt.
I counted days that build up in a pile.
We've walked a mile.
Hand in hand.
i hope you never wake up sad
with blues unclouded in your head,
and thoughts that are wild horses of the sorrow.
and all the fruity wine you've spilled
will come to you all multiplied tomorrow
wild horses
© Copyright: Неттер Линг, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126073105617
Свидетельство о публикации №126073105617
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