Blogging Poetry

Softest Fleshes

Spring is upon us.

The Sun dressed Her.

Her sundress, tresses.

That fleeting smirk confesses

Things I’d hoped to hear.

Wishful thinking,

But She impresses,

Perhaps She holds me near.

Dear. Trusted, but rusted,

Old Sun’s caresses,

Can leave burns in the

Softest Fleshes.


© All rights reserved, 2017.

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