The whispers of the spirit of dead lovers can be agonizingly joyful, I have managed to collect the very best from my sleep. Read, digest and share.
Thanks
A lonely leg limps on a lawn of thorns, Condensed crimson blossoms outta its eyes. And earth coldly looks away and bark It into the middle of the lonely dark.
It was rushed into the Hunger Games Of Love. Arms against tilted sea waves And heart a bait for haunted debris. But its eyes didn't get the gifted see. Of Dolphins not breaking its spirit free.
It is a sacked city or a broken crown. Forcefully deserted or unimportant. It wasn't hatched from a golden egg And it isn't a kissable green toad. Only a hopper that dreams too much.
So, it prays. It sings. It dances. It has faith. It has a voice. It has moves. But lost the pen with which to write The love story it needs to live. The greatest love story that never was.
It wants to do it in a cold bucket Singing of the joys it has not found, While a pointy blade kisses its veins Knowing that dreams it never had Were ended by an Ernest severe chill.
Alack,
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