Grey Rain



Something moves
Out in the fields of Night
Without a sound
Thought, dissolves into nothingness
In a coat made of rain
Grey trees whispering
'Forever Night wakes to be'
In patterns of the grain
No one listening
She touches you so silently j§



Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 539 times
Written on 2017-08-28 at 03:24

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