Cool leather on the soft grass,
Under the Warm sun.
Cold finger tips on dry letters
Under the darkest of Skies.
A favourite book in the
Dim light of morning,
A bright fire burning
Destroying the work
Poured into the words,
The pages are as exciting
as fresh fallen snow
The words are like home,
A warm hot chocolate on a
Sweetly rainy afternoon,
The sentences are the comfort
That were taken from a freshly
Cleaned blanket
The binding, was holding it
All together
The pages are crackling,
Curling to ash,
Old ink turning the fire a green-y blue
Stealing that home sentiment,
Sentences begin to turn brown, and are
Taking away the relaxation.
The binding melts
Falling on the logs
I am so happy I got another one done (with the help of Shane Heley) that I had to put it up.
