The luring voice of the windchime,
Pulling,
The home of the faraway lands.
The fire in the ornate place,
Crackling,
The scent of familiar sense.
The wooden rocking chair,
Creaking,
Transcending into the thoughts forbidden.
The dust on the photoframes,
Waiting ,
To fall into the forgotten rhythm.

The tangerine summers of the west,
Hands twining,
Crowns of olive branches,
And the orchids in the braid oh so french.
The love of the childhood,
Understanding
Nothing.
But the rhythms of heart.
A lub and a dub,.
And those counting to ten.
Together,
Learning,
Falling,
Bracing,
And to deceive who, crying.
The chest her solace,
Nd her lap his.
The love of the time,
When the currency was smiles and cheeze.
Lips unsaid,
Sushed how they fell in love,
Just so young.

The rusty ring on her finger,
Bracing,
How they fell in love so young.

©mistyme



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