Those tresses, dark eyes
entangled in light, bathing
in the day’s summer sun,
I move across, understand
delusions, a bit of life’s strands. Picking up yellow autumn leaves
this is love.
Is not.
Those tresses, dark eyes
entangled in light, bathing
in the day’s summer sun,
I move across, understand
delusions, a bit of life’s strands. Picking up yellow autumn leaves
this is love.
Is not.