If there's a place I can call my own.
a place where the music of all favourites songs play night long as the eyes closes,
a space where paint bursting balloons bursting yet the floor are considered clean with the magical glow.
a place where paint brushes hanging, dangling, canvas everywhere
a place where legs are happily dancing, painting the skies
a place where there are trees around
With a soft pillow ground made of cold grass lawn
a place where theres peace but not loneliness,
a good kind of silence in sight,
a place below the shiny night sky
a place where heads can lay and count the stars up high
and perhaps with a shoulder whose answers never fails to surpise,
of where the city of tiny apples be? where rainbows end? how we can be?
No comments:
Post a Comment