The poet paces his way.
Towards a higher perch.
To miss the touch
of soft fingers.
Tracing lines
upon your face.
Would be a mortal fear,
an empty air of existence.
Risking absurdity
The poet paces his way.
Towards a higher perch.
To miss the touch
of soft fingers.
Tracing lines
upon your face.
Would be a mortal fear,
an empty air of existence.
A Wandering Poet 