rough edges-
weave through the waving grass lands
focusing on myself , but
every designated corner
the hope of your arrival was a dragged sword
the attracrtion of the ground to my dagger lit the few hope
the clock travel with the numbers of your passing
begineers luck never withstood it’s wants when it came to you
every handle needs a door
your the handle to the oppurtunity of door
but now i hope to close the door
the colour of our impulsive acts brush the smile on my face
curving was the treatment to a mending heart
