Sadness touches upon the doves' feathers,
We look for sunny weather,
Our souls are dressed in leather.
You keep telling me
I don't need you anymore,
But I see through walls,
I'm your warm distant shore.
Sadness touches the mind of yours,
It's rambling through planet's cores,
And sometimes at night it hurts.
Sadness looks like a game we play,
Like the wind we inhale,
Like an old faitytale.
Sadness reserved
© Copyright: Марина Чиянова, 2021
Свидетельство о публикации №121120506007
Свидетельство о публикации №121120506007
Рецензии