| Thursday, February 08, 2007 |
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I do not smile; I do not frown. It is I in frisky stupor Who dances under your wing, Like smoke in broad daylight; It is I who feeds you with succulent dreams, In frothy mixtures of white and black I, who wakes at dawn, to tread On moonlit fields, where love has bled. It is I, who gnaws with my eyes, A hundred arms without fingers, But each with a single tale to hide. I, who lives as your heart, When mirrors lie - scorned. Liberated at 12:46:00 AM | | |
