Telegraphic

mountain breeze blowing tree tops
swinging upon cliffs rising from the sea
shores where sea shells abound
maiden walking along the seaweeds
picking some pieces of her past
that dims like a lamp without oil
or gas without a child hands covering
the wick from the harshness of the night
wind..who wants the light dead?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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