Quiet,
Like pinholes through a shroud of silence.
I write the dreams and fog of hope,
To understand nothing of a longing.
It’s time to envision the illusions of the night,
And crawl into a cocoon
To wake a moth. No, a butterfly.
And drift with a breeze.
Poem written by Jeremy C Kester
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©2017 Jeremy C Kester – All Rights Reserved
