My Days, My You
What in this dream invites
a constant ruse
That gently riles the
things that fuse
A thin razed smile, a semblance
fades
A rendered source of
twilight days
Ask them please and let me through
Inside for me, my days, my you
Of this I think
And thinking lies
This ink will dry
and dryness dies
Copyright © Lebo Bopalamo | Year Posted 2019
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