Perspiration scribbles our faces with sweat
candle lights making them to glisten and look like golden droplets
looking at my reflection on this wine glass,
though a disfigured image, im like..she is one lucky lass
she touches my free hand
and my mind is creating images of fertile idyllic lands
this is what raised me...
now see...
some years ago they fought wars leading them to their graves
but the sun didnt set, thats why we term them as braves
monologue of laments
through her soft touch, she knows how meant
when i said..."soul to soul, togetha we face our pasts and future sentiments
yeah us, as the present...
~A Lost Child the Poet of Darkness~
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