Not Two
It is late at nightA post apocalyptic write
Skips a heartbeat not two excite,
Tattooed shadows seems to drift across
Deserts of forlorn skin,
Orphaned fingers wander through the empty blue sky
Wonders at an end, where do we begin?
Offer you a light
Way up high in your orient wood of gongs
Dreaming clouds of fascination looks like rain
Gaze gone days prepare to stare aways again,
With point of pen the thought let pent
Alone besides one lone lament
Skips a heartbeat not two excite
A post apocalyptic write
It was late at night . . .
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
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Written on 2014-11-13 at 05:59
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