The wounded eagle
The cloudiest highs
The willowiest lows
A slight touch of white
Somewhere In between
A breeze of light from bright to orange then red
This is not a sunset
darling
it is I
My blood on this sketchy horizon
An eagle that never flew by…
A sunset of all
I sketched for you this forest
Colorless as the world would be
With you not seeing it
A green sandstone
This this pasture
With your bare feet
Not walking on it
All of this
Sunset of all
Colorless sketches
Poet’s heart
His darkness with no nights…
Slavomir Almajan's Blog 