Eastern winds
are blowing.
Scarred from
too many escapes.
Blank pages linger,
under withered ideas.
And that jade fabric
singing in the air.
A light inside my lungs,
life is turned on.
As if these silent days
will never return.
Too many whispers
Eastern winds
are blowing.
Scarred from
too many escapes.
Blank pages linger,
under withered ideas.
And that jade fabric
singing in the air.
A light inside my lungs,
life is turned on.
As if these silent days
will never return.
A Wandering Poet 