Wrinkled hands on mine,
And a warm smile,
All good.
Running downstairs to greet,
Every weekend we'd meet,
Good times.
Lift me up to reach the sky,
Where the birds flew by,
How glad.
Bought me bread downtown,
Even got me a silver crown,
Looks nice.
Special memories were piled,
What I miss?-their smile.
Long gone.
YOU ARE READING
Her Lines Of Poetry
Poetrywords forming poems. fabricated feelings. stack paragraphs of familiar subjects. tip of my pen that releases ink to write those unwritten words. to wrap up the works. the tapping sound of my device that creates the words I have in mind. in too deep...
