Her hair waved in the wind with the red ensign. The waves elated like a soul with rhyme. It was warm, dusk closer to night. Poets time, when angels visit to help bards write. Aside of me and her, and the warm Cretian air.
Cretian air
When the Soul Cried Out for Meaning
Her hair waved in the wind with the red ensign. The waves elated like a soul with rhyme. It was warm, dusk closer to night. Poets time, when angels visit to help bards write. Aside of me and her, and the warm Cretian air.
I am my poetry, my poetry is me. I pray what I believe. I believe what I pray. View more posts
Smith Shine Poetry
Nice blog
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Thankyou glad you liked it.
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