Strange perfume, the faint smell of burning wood,
On The cool summer air.
And should the day a pyre make,
All that once was comfort,
Wouldn’t the rolling hills,
The white, distant,
Glistening Streams,
The flowers,
The rain,
Lips of smiling moons,
Still a joyful scene unto my senses?

Published by Tonyyy

twitter.com/sirmorose tumblr.com/sirmorose instagram.com/sir.morose

%d bloggers like this: