Passion lays dead beside me, Nothing feels full to even make ithalf enough.I wait as seconds linger, and shadows scrape me off four walls.
Where is the passion
When shadows crawl the walls
Displacing silent needing
To sighs, till morning calls?
The answer may be close at hand. The Poets Tree *wink*
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem »