XVII

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on a hushed adrift afternoon

i imagined

She is the wind

conveying me

where winter roses

embrace cold mountains

and the rush of waters

reaches for the perplexing blur

of eternity

where seashells

reflect the sounds of a lonesome planet

slowly stormed with patterned waves

where sorrow fades

like a passing train

disappearing behind the mystery of horizon


Autumn's Never Ending PoetryWhere stories live. Discover now