When there is nothing left to say
I will brush the cobwebs from my soul,
this rusted dented old soul.
Unfurl it, let it catch the freshening breeze,
a leaf waving goodbye to its season,
gone to join its tribe on the last breath of autumn
waiting for the ground to break its fall. June 2012
I will brush the cobwebs from my soul,
this rusted dented old soul.
Unfurl it, let it catch the freshening breeze,
a leaf waving goodbye to its season,
gone to join its tribe on the last breath of autumn
waiting for the ground to break its fall. June 2012
Poetry on the run 
Aww Ron,
The soft spot of me you’ve hit..
Just…, perfect…
I’ll reblog this soon Ron willing… with an added picture if you’d provide one?
😀
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I don’t mind at all…I will send along a picture.
Thanks Rom
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