Tag Archives: poem
She loves me. She loves me not. But what of the petals faith has forgot? Of those that fell before the final plucked prediction, can one among them foretell of her heart’s true conviction? Advertisements
From the soft pastel fabrics of dawn to the ghostly hue textiles of twilight the day dresses solely for the night.
Poets are philosophers who sometimes rhyme.
Her hand rests snug in mine synchronized fingers slip into perfect symmetry of interlocking flesh and bone. Lightly knuckles fold an affectionate clamp. Tips softly caress then settle, thumbs overlap crux over hinge. Her delicate palm, tender smooth, lays engulfed … Continue reading
The sweep of road, a gradient line seldom walked. The stretch of a mile. Few cars hug the rising bend in the morning; by evening they descend. And in between the bulk of day scarce are the travellers passing that … Continue reading