by Just like burnt wood
the spirit is gone.
I dream of cool, deep water
and rising moons
which touch the sky.
I wake
with a tear in my eye.
Battered impressions of emptiness
mark my pillow.
The fresh red rose
which promised dissent
has now withered.
Just like burnt wood
the spirit is gone.
I dream of cool, deep water
and rising moons
which touch the sky.
I wake
with a tear in my eye.
Battered impressions of emptiness
mark my pillow.
The fresh red rose
which promised dissent
has now withered.
Ramblings & Random Rants 
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