You.
A single syllable
A drop of water
In an endless cascade
The unreaching extremides
You.
A thought
Seperate from millions
A tear of the atmoshpere
Unfading into the back drop
You.
The existance of the unextraordinary
A flare in waiting darkness
Simple freedom
Simple thought
Simple You
YOU ARE READING
March of the Flowers
PoetryOne by one, we march. We march. Our branches tired. Our leaves are wearied. March of the Flowers is a collection of poetry
