At odd hours ...
In the middle of the night
Or wee hours of the morning
Did I keep the window open
By mistake
But then the breeze wicked as ever
Swishes them away...
Without taking leave of me
I was never meant to promise them a page
I was never meant to imprison them
With a quil... in ink...in bold letters maybe
I was never meant to own them
I realise of late
But
It's late ....too late....
Oh! So late....
Shared with Poets And Storytellers United
