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Who'd pick the book with the ugliest of covers or blemished features over beautiful faces?
Who'd pick a moonless night over a sky full of stars, a stormy day over bright beams of sunlight?
In a field of colorful roses who'd dare to choose a daisy, in a world of benevolence who would want to love me?
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YOU ARE READING
'Silent' Clouds.
Puisi¶Words have no meaning, unless you make them, turning them into a spontaneous overflow of rhythm¶ ¶A string of broken pieces interwoven into into poetry. Broken symphonies, turned into poetry¶
