Is there smoke in your mirror
Hiding your view from the beautiful
Is there a blinder on your eye
Keeping an eye on that could be
Difficult, eyes they wander
Smoked to clearer
morn of the mourner
bed of the bent
my father and his hands hold love. I always love my father.
1 comment:
i like how you write. it makes the reader piece together things for himself. or herself.
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