She’s a carved souvenir,
An idle breath to adore her scent….
A frigid woolen sheer,
She’s tragedy with no bitter end…
An illustration with no meaning,
A colour without a shade…
Life’s immerged seeding,
She’s a book that wrote a page…
She’s movements in friction,
The vowel in that maze….
She’s a novel with a fiction,
A book without a page…
She’s dictionary in a spelling,
A synonym in an empty page…
What gives this heart a swelling?
Love’s just a pending wage…
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2 comments:
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Love it!!!
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