For the time alone grumbled but a line
In the realm of fences, to this day inclined
To believe - it's them and the bloom to blame,
Voiceless though am I, saving up the name,
I resort to you, my- left blank-, my song.
***
My third word that I couldn't help but stain
(Other ones be "sky" and,most noted, "rain").
I resort to you, for the hue's stripped bare
Of a vernal blue , you have come to bear.
Oddity of mine, were you dubbed -left blank-?
***
Were it starry waves to reveal their glint,
I'd be damned,indeed, not to find this binned,
Yet, for all they care, wind could pass for roar.
It is lovely, "left" on the arm of "tore",
And an arching crest of a tear.
A nocturn
© Copyright: Карташов Анатолий, 2018
Свидетельство о публикации №118052503251
Свидетельство о публикации №118052503251
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