Author: M.W.
Grasp
please hold me,
i feel like moonlight, streaming through the gaps in your fingers,
light and glorious and not there at all.
like a figment of a stranger’s imagination,
i cannot grasp at myself.
Lost
She is lost
Out there in the fields
That go on forever never yielding
To the forests that used to cover everything.
She starts, she stops,
She walks without knowing
Why her eyes fill with tears
When she hears the larks sing.
About her pretty hair,
About her pretty eyes,
Crowned with thistles
She sings too
Sometimes.