Her Hands
On the nails of her hands she paints venetian blindsSilver sails in the sands where no one ever finds
Standing on a bridge of starry night, he looks but never sees
Her dreaming eyes dancing in the light, speak like soliloquies
Morning coming like an opening door
With more than enough words to say
Everything is but nothing is more
Than just another bill to pay
Still faraway beyond what's known
She waits and paints her sight
Deep inside herself all alone
And waiting for her Night
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 253 times
Written on 2022-05-30 at 15:23
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