Tuesday, November 29, 2011


The raindrops slur onto the roof
And he stood still, lost.
A whisk, and he turned;
Caught again by the gaze
That he tries so hard to avoid.
A whisper, and his lips move;
A smile, and his face lifts;
A look, and his eyes are lost.
So far they seem, yet he follows
The trace of perfection
That burn in their wake
Across his imaginary sky.

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