With crimson dreams you drift ghostly fingers through my skin,
A haunting passion I'll never feel again.
Blue is for a winner, something I'll never be with your heart.
Red is for lovers, The kind you would never let me be.
Gold is for those precious things, Things better then me.
Pink is for those love sick eyes, That have never looked my why.
Still I wait for those moments when, with crimson dreams you drift ghostly fingers through my skin and leave a hunting passion I'll never feel again.













Comments
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To live is to die!
[link]
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... often when I write I am trying to make words do the work of line and colour. I have the painters sensitivity to light. Much (and perhaps the best) of my writing is verbal painting. ~Elizabeth Bowen~
you are still waiting?
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To live is to die!
[link]
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... often when I write I am trying to make words do the work of line and colour. I have the painters sensitivity to light. Much (and perhaps the best) of my writing is verbal painting. ~Elizabeth Bowen~
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To live is to die!
[link]
--
... often when I write I am trying to make words do the work of line and colour. I have the painters sensitivity to light. Much (and perhaps the best) of my writing is verbal painting. ~Elizabeth Bowen~
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To live is to die!
[link]
Now did I mean the toys?
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... often when I write I am trying to make words do the work of line and colour. I have the painters sensitivity to light. Much (and perhaps the best) of my writing is verbal painting. ~Elizabeth Bowen~
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To live is to die!
[link]
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