sometimes
there are far too many words,
and sometimes
not near enough-
for the heart blooms
in its summers,
and hides deep
in its winters,
following no definable season;
and the soul
no single constellation,
and the mind…
well, does it matter?
there is a moment,
every night,
before I drift off,
when I see you
on this wild voyage too.
Loved this one!
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Thank you so much, Kat. With the novel nearing full-swing, poetry’s taken a backseat… but not entirely!
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