The posted letter.

When paper will be filled with signs of soul -
A bit forgotten words and pure illusions,
A stolen heart, as heavy as a stone,
Will force the brain to make the last conclusion.

The fingers trembling, wet and deathly cold
Will smear the inks all over the envelop
And everything you have already told
Will never be in soapy way developed.

You've post it forward. Nothing to be changed.
No hope to say some more, to catch a swallow.
When be received, that spotted, crumpled page
Will prove to be inane and hopeless hollow.

@темы: Рифмовязание