Plumage


Your finger is a feather of unbound desire
Burning forever the weather frozen ground on fire
Heavens are wheeling hearts someone faraway
So to say
With a touch you leave on the softest light
Like one who was blind may have hoped you might
Today
Tonight.



Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 543 times
Written on 2017-09-02 at 15:34

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