Our Happily-Ever-Afters are apples hanging from a tree.
We yearn to take a bite;
but stare as hard as we can,
they won't magically drop into our hands.
We have to climb.
***
YOU ARE READING
Moonlit
PoetryThese are thoughts born under the moon's glow; when sheep has run out, and sleep's a child playing hide and seek with the mind. Some moonlit verses from a pillow-hugging girl.
