| |
Stood by our gooseberry bush,
A sight not seen in eight years
Or so, I drifted off to an earlier
Day, with the birds flying high and
The sun in the sky, burning my
Juvenile skin. I placed out my
Hand for to touch it’s fresh leafs
And to taste its bittersweet fruit.
Silent ghosts stood beside me,
Wishing me well, while I remembered
My youthful years. But now the
Smells not the same and the taste
Has gone plane, and the sky’s a
Miserable grey. For this garden
Of old and house long since sold
Shall never see the likes of me again
ian curtis
|
|
User Rating: |
|
10.0
/10
(3 votes) |
|
|
|
ian curtis
E-mail this poem to e friend