What does your muse look like, my friend?
A path predetermined, straight, defined
I followed it devoid of dreams,
And then a light pierced through my blinds
In his caress, I tore life's seams.
My angel's wings are roughly sewn.
Gray moonlight lights his stormy path
Galatea - like I live reborn.
"He mouldeth fates" - his epitaph.
Galatea
© Copyright: Athena, 2004
Свидетельство о публикации №104021900220
Свидетельство о публикации №104021900220
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