Saturday, August 08, 2009 . 13:35
The sensation had almost a tentative feeling to it,
liken the gossamer wing of a butterfly,
brushing pass silently,
stirring up nothing in void.
Forgotten was the uncertainty,
the shyness in their place,
remained unbridled in solemness,
the journey to the end.
It was the first,
never to be taken again,
Once to it all,
till again.
Perpetual at the lost of words,
silent yet steady i acknowledge it,
the moment too soon,
like a rings of consonants,
My first,
Journey home,
With grace and serenity,
to
Clara The Java Chip Munk
liken the gossamer wing of a butterfly,
brushing pass silently,
stirring up nothing in void.
Forgotten was the uncertainty,
the shyness in their place,
remained unbridled in solemness,
the journey to the end.
It was the first,
never to be taken again,
Once to it all,
till again.
Perpetual at the lost of words,
silent yet steady i acknowledge it,
the moment too soon,
like a rings of consonants,
My first,
Journey home,
With grace and serenity,
to
Clara The Java Chip Munk