Spring as my autumn it has come,
when driftwood
by the wind and green the waves.
Eternal is flame, when passed on.
Heavy is my head,
in the shape of your hands
birds flying high, clouds floating by.
The edges, the curves and none knowing why,
at the crossroads of one, she hears my cry.
Spinning around looking down are the tears
looking up at the dawns, iridescent cold blue fire.
Driftwood and sleep, letters and ink,
left in the sand in the heat of the nights moon light.
..
Sh.H
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