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Rated: E · Poetry · Other · #2003837
The one I complain to
Letters I wrote to my creator asking the wind to deliver,

Not before anyone's prayers.

But when the days turns a little later and darkness gives it meaning,

And truth makes it greater.

The mysteries you build within that I can only feel,

to speak our act bring eternal torture.

So I respond with never ending sin.

O father hold my right hand, for I'm just a shell with thoughts.

But with you I can touch my soul, finally I can see.

Forever I speak hiding my left hand. 

 
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