And like a bird with feathered wings,
I too can fly over crisp autumn scented leaves.
A person is like a book:
For they too long to be read.
Jackets are like lamps:
They only work if they are on.
Clocks don't have to stop ticking
For us to run out of time.
Wet paint is like a person:
It runs.
Flames bring light;
Fire brings darkness.
Dripping crimson ink;
No longer able to think.
Clear liquid stains eyes red,
For dead always means dead.
My veins of ink
Scorched my brain,
like lead.
YOU ARE READING
Candles of the Night: A Book of Poetry
PoetryA book of all of the random poems I have written. Read through them and you'll be smitten. Updates are random for inspiration doesn't always flow. But often enough because I'm not that slow. Yes, many are written in rhyming verse. Yet not all are...
