I loved playing in the outskirt of my house, playing till my heart contents.
Playing to hornes my curiosity. I was but a child in a plane of titans.
I loved the smell of the rain, the sound of rebels clashing,
the cold cloudy skys,
I was but a child of many mystery and mischief.
The plants and the green leaves to whom to they represent, but a beautiful Fall.
The beauty of the spring, the breeze wind of the winter and the shining sun of the summer.
I was but a child of extraordinary.
The years pass like a flying arrows now
Looking back at it I realize that my live was and is but a "withering Flower"
YOU ARE READING
A poet by night
PoetryPoetry is a passion,words of wisdom and a endless possibilities of speech. In poetry we laugh, we cry, we fight for cost, and it's all composted in simple letters summarized in single page that's spelled in simple title ...
