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A drifting soul Chooses-wandering Its own facade-inspecting It passes over each-searching Their loving arms Protruded-hoping   But Neither has a choice-knowing
Pale eyes wander in a vacuum No air no breath One gust of hope every millenia
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul poetry is the voice for those who feel voiceless its words that come together to fill up the holes its senteces of happiness but also calls of distress.
She opened my eyes to the power of words: A finely turned phrase, An image painted on the canvas of the mind’s eye. In her solitude she found herself, Her pen speaking the truth of her reality.
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