empty city, not a soul in sight...perfect
an exhale against night's chill
the words
something warm within, rises.
the rate I stroll rolls the rhythm out
dreams won't fly away.
sometimes they do,
a melancholic peace,
accepting limits, moods.
empty city, not a soul in sight...perfect
1 comment:
Gotta love those long walks. That's where the real writing gets done.
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