Let the sand form itself under the weight of our feet
While the sea rests itself between our toes
Let the seagulls' cry become our music
Dance your dance-nobody will know
Once we've made it back from the shore
Turn the embers of the bonfire twice
Rest your head on my chest, let's huddle
Let the moonlight work its own device
YOU ARE READING
Confessions of a Tired Poet
PoetryWhat kind of poem would you write if you stopped caring about everybody else? Confessions of a Tired Poet is a collection of short poems that gives you a backstage pass to the life of a poet who's sick and tired of his life. This is the front seat t...
