Words run through the writer's soul. Words are his blood. Any time he shares his words, he bleeds.
I bleed too.
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Wednesday, 16 October 2013
Monday, 7 October 2013
Unfulfilled
Lies a path for the fallen rain
A stream with no sound
A flood of waste
Through the dawn of his life
Filters a golden ray of light
An assurance of a bright warm sun
A fore gleam of an eternal luminance
Clouds - dark and murky
Shrouds a gift of power and beauty
He lived and died a “potential”
Never attaining his true stature
His life was a dream
A dream, unfulfilled
Labels:
potential,
reflections,
regret,
sad
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