On summers day, the wind blows by,
His fingers tap at the sheets and distant birds fly.
On summers day, he will not die,
That ashen face, that pained smile.
Who were you then? Who are you now?
A soul escaped this painful life.
YOU ARE READING
P-P-P-Poetry
PoetryMy amateur attempts at writing poetry. Don't expect too much, as this is as silly as it can be. Some though, may end up having deep meaning.
