I imagine his mind is a labyrinth
spun with silk and gossamer thread.
His worries and thoughts flex,
bend and stretch
but never split.
His wishes and apologies
stick
in his throat;
dew flecked kisses
sting
and his eyes singe
with love
only the nightingale
sings of.
He is lost in a maze
of his own manufacturing;
a triumph for mankind
and self-broken hearts.
He repeats his desire
for us to never part
but it is the door handle
which looks like home
In his palms instead of me.
© Kristiana Reed 2018
I love the imagery you’ve woven so finely here, Kristiana! It’s absolutely gorgeous!! One section stood out to me the most:
“and his eyes singe
with love
only the nightingale
sings of.”
What talent you have!! Thank you so much for sharing!! 😊💜 ~Kelsey
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Thank you very much! 💛
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This is really lovely.
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Thank you ☺️
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You’re making me swoon! ❤
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Thank you Kindra 💛💛💛
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Most welcome, Lovely 💜
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