Hers, Alone.

She can­not write me with ease, read­ing my mind
With a fresh page flip­ping she dips my pen in a well
Full of potent thoughts from which dry, oppor­tu­nity
To turn it over, as life, drain­ing of all its pur­pose clings
To the edge there is no end to reach but the unde­fined
Long­ing to be released from cap­tiv­ity, the famil­iar, to soar
With dif­fi­culty she must write me, out of my mind, freed















No Comments

Leave a Reply

Your email is never shared.Required fields are marked *