Soul vanishes through ear to catch every
Sigh, shout, song, noise of a passing car, voice, echo, quiver
Like a silent net that absorbs your world
Which becomes a memory never to unburden
That I will only hear, rewind like a tape
I record I will never sell for empty talk of blaspheming lips
A sound I long to melt in, a place I dream of walking in
That my imagination built with crumbs of evidence
Coming tediously from headphones I am glued to still.
Telephone Call
© Copyright: Юнона Рассвета, 2009
Свидетельство о публикации №109071002197
Свидетельство о публикации №109071002197
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