Poema
On the distant hill lights shimmer
(and the roar of thought - turns to silence.)
5 pm.
(
moon already out
- turned to shadow
) by morning?
I feel restless with [me] -
by evening?
memories press onto me like a lover,
wash over me like rain,
felt myself loving another,
then felt that love turn to pain.
[our being here makes us special.]
// we're not really strangers.
tomtad
