It is misting. It is the mist.
The flower ripens, fades and falls.
How won’t it cease to exist?
And you play to her like with a doll.
The windows were blind with the rain.
Her eyes hazed with tears.
And she experienced constant pain.
All that was, it was for fear.
It is misting. It is the mist.
Anguish of the body and mind
Is putting you a waiting list.
And we are so… all the human kind.
When they feel deep sorrow
That’s not your suffering.
So you, all the same, lollop,
And your mind is buffering.
It is misting. It is the mist.
You play for high stakes.
You set up for wits.
But you know it didn’t take.
Now your game is over.
Your dreams are lost on the rocks.
So you feel so lower…
That is what you always talk cock.
The Mist
© Copyright: Ольга Расмус, 2013
Свидетельство о публикации №113032200944
Свидетельство о публикации №113032200944
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