stared at the blank pages
try to write happiness
i blink.
is there anything to write at all?
deserted, i'm too exhausted to crawl.
i think.
if the gallery was a place
where heaven is portrayed
will it unlock the escape door to my prayer?
i ran out of ink.
those eyes yearned for the smile
under cherry blossom tree.
do you have to dream just to be happy?
i blink.
YOU ARE READING
The Wanderer
PoetrySomewhere in between times, there are souls wander around to find something to believe in. Something to hope for.
