Fingers laced within
threads
Threads upon my pale
face
Hanging down like
silkened fibers
I touch each one
asking for favor
A request I shall
patiently await
And await is my game
that I always play
Distance my only
misfortune
Patience is the
whistler of the game
Blowing from lips
silenced by oceans between
Imagination kills the
desire of being with
Whose waters of green
unknown shall I swim against tides for
Each tide and bolt I
evade would grain for my steps towards you
Pebbled sands once
remote and unsteady with time do my feet now firmly become poised
But yet you are here
in mine and I'm there in yours wiping away the dim thoughts
My tongue, has sipped
the waters of your soul that were once parched
What a sweet taste and
deep touch on your hanging hair.
By Med Kanour and AS Lopez ( Morocco and United States of America)
photo credits: www.abstract.desktopnexus.com
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