Saturday, 10 November 2012

Out of Reach

When four becomes zero,
when the branches have dissolved,
the leaves have all fallen
and the seasons have evolved
there lingers a whisper,
a faint trace of the past,
a slight hope to hold on to
so we can make moments last
but the butterfly is thinning
and its far from my skin.

You're losing your wings,
I'm losing my grin.

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