She went to his house, thinking they were friends
Not knowing that this night, her subconscious life...
The wind floats far from it's resting place
in search of warmth to rise again...
Treading amongst
Herbaceous boarders...
The morning tenderness
Its fairly sunrise...
No
one...
I.
Before you were born...
To whom do I write this poem about?
To which recipient do I send it to...
The poet turns his face to the heavens -
He knows this feeling, this need to write...
We look for landmarks,
familiar spots in roads...
Time is moment
Moment is period...
I'm living.
come back later, around eleven...
If I could give you anything
it would be moments...