To be titled
Orange toes, with florescent lamps
Her feet taps on leafy fields
Lilies & daffodils spread on blue grass
A violet sun shines upon wings of doves.
Her hazel mischief dances gently
And every fall casts an opaque crisp
Leaves float a midst the air she breathes
Like a snowflake fall on a winter’s virgin.
I’m not sure if it’s complete. Hm, i almost always never know whether what i write is complete or not. It annoys me to tell you the truth. How is it possible to feel so sure about something, and yet feel as though it lacks?