August 16, 2010 § Leave a comment
Writing it off as poetry is nothingness. One cannot explain by defining/giving this a name, no. No. By definition I am the antennae above the wings of a painted lady. Has poetry sensilae? Blind, we fumble. Bound, we stumble.
Oh Trouvelot, had you known how to know. I mean, really know. Let those bloody LED outdoor lights ignite your eyes like tigers. Do they still call this the dance of colours?
I am in love with your whisper and your tones. And the left aspect of your nose. That is all. That is all.
Who would have known?