Tuesday, February 02, 2016


September is the month,
What say we run away?
On the crisp wind to a Fall-time retreat,
Our eyes closed, come what may,

Under cover, of course, of the bare trees,
Your brown dress will blend in,
Hide you from those who want you back at home,
Me safe in Mediterranean skin.

Let them scrunch their eyes in disapprovement,
Shaking fingers at us,
Afraid that the world will choose to follow,
The brash adventurous.
Not the first time,
Revolution's followed,
In the wake of the few who dared escape,
Walking lightly under a heavy load.

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