Freely floating in the sky,
With the tender gust of the winds,
Every half past four in the afternoon,
While I thrust up a pail of water from a well.
Everytime I see it dancing,
In the vaugeness of blue spaces,
And the scenic story of an aphelion,
Caresses me of our archaic mellows.
Still captivated by its groove,
Yet we're on the late edition of our elegy.
It was sweet.
Still sweet.
YOU ARE READING
The Flyleaf
Poetry"Poetry is the aesthetic translation of the world's dynamism." Here is a collection of poems in random subjects. Enjoy! 💕
