Sunday, November 27

I Breathe Your Name . . .

Little beads of rain pour down heavily . . 
I wonder if the clouds are in pain too .  .
For doesnt the same happen to my life daily ?
When the thought of you leaves me all sore and blue . . 

Somethings are hard to believe,
For the yearning has been soulful to the core 
When the desire is impossible to retrieve ;
And that is when the blow begins to bore !

soon to be part of an anthology- 


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