The rustling of a glade are these,
Endless poems, endless trees,
Each a pointed line, a crease,
Each inside my mind, careen.
For what is this but an endless dream,
Of life and death, and joy serene.
For what is this but an illusory wall,
To keep in comfort, us all.
Till in time we sleep,
And dreams forget.
And see the truth,
The life we beget.
And hear the cries,
Of joy inside,
Those lives we creased,
In glades like these.
In glades like these.
YOU ARE READING
Often confusing
PoezieSecond part to a muses musings because wattpad has a story limit. . . I mean an enthralling book of stories
