Wednesday 30 December 2009


Oftentimes i thought,
Of the mad lover,
The one that wrote of rains,
And shook his finger at me.
While, on the threshold,
I stood, anxious,
For the next torrent of words
To drench me.
Seasons passed and
The leaf voice wilted;
The storms that curled and
Reared in the folds of my mind,
Were set free.
Oftentimes i think,
Of the mad lover and wonder
If I now sound stranger
The words of a girl,
The thoughts of a woman...

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