The strong wind,
The lonely call that it gave
The fierce snap and shiver
Of its might could blow past
All of the things it truly
Wanted to hold onto.
The beating current,
The menial repetition of the waves,
The crisp shock and cold
Of its substance flow through
All of the feet it truly
Wished it could grasp.
The slow growing oak,
The patience of each leaf,
The droning of the years passing
Into the peace of death with
All of the wonderous things
That died before me.
I am life,
And I never die.
ВЫ ЧИТАЕТЕ
Dread
Поэзия"If loving you is a mistake, I will make that mistake A million times over." -a poet, a muse.
