speak not of your life
beyond these doors
i shan't speak of mine
for here,
...
frenetically we scurry
through the dungeons of our minds
weaving this way
and that
...
the majestic sun
hangs determinedly
in purple-blue skies
it languors
...
if you should chance upon an elf
dancing barefoot upon dewy grass
he may seem solemn, within himself
stop nonetheless, do not pass
...
he held the wriggling baby
so tightly to his chest
with tears of joy he whispers
'i will always do my best
...
i write what i feel, what i see, what i live.. i write when i am alone, and oft times, i'm lonely when i write.. my words are simple, my thoughts are pure, my feelings real.. i think many will be able to associate their lives within my words.. my gift to you.. thank you for reading.. sabine: -))
The Motel Room
speak not of your life
beyond these doors
i shan't speak of mine
for here,
in this white-walled room
of secrets unspoken
we shall weave memories
and frame them
in nameless frames
then look upon them
in future moments of
emptiness, and smile
knowing that far away
across seas and chasms of time
we remember one another
in rooms with white walls