Every rustle of russet-toned leaves,
Seems to emphasize on the voices,
Of our dying laughter so residual,
It seems to leech onto the soul.
How else can distance be measured,
If even nature herself teased;
Drawing us closer in the flesh,
Yet we hide and refuse to seek.
Who walked away before whom,
Stopped feeling the rhythm of bosom;
Who is still peeping through the blinds,
And who has long since donned the blings?
Copyright © 2016 thearcticstar