If only I could
clutch your fingers,
hinging on to your shoulder,
gaze at the crescent and
its guise over the briny deep,
hear your voice for the eventide,
I would even rest in peace
~sara~
YOU ARE READING
Traces
PoésieIn this book 'Traces' I have traced the outline of every unspoken sense and multiple emotions that one might have lingered with wreckage for unbounded dawns, dusks and darks.
