Bull Hawking


every day


Every day I come to this yard
the place we used to play
Hoping for slightest glimpse of you
not noticing me
Your love notes would be written
On orange falling leaves
Dropped by the gentlest breeze
On yellow I saw you scrawl your pain
In red your passion burst
I ran amoung the speckled sky
stitching our missing together

Submitted: Friday, November 15, 2013
Edited: Friday, November 15, 2013

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