The Cat

She’s a gipsy cat,
Dark and tanned with disease
And memories of ease,
Of times like these,
Of unforgotten pleas.
I’ve never let her go outside,
That’s not her place,
She likes to hide,
Like Cupid hides his bow after he hits his bride,
Like people naked without pride.

Lasă un răspuns

Acest site folosește Akismet pentru a reduce spamul. Află cum sunt procesate datele comentariilor tale.