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A Year of Freedom
May 3, 2011
We start with a word.
We end with a song.
And as we go unheard,
and as we go along,
we will find the absurd,
but it's where we belong.
My love, go without regret.
Go without a sound.
In silence, we cannot fret.
It is there we are not bound.
We may not be correct,
but we will be around.
I left you in a warm place,
and I now cannot remember
a single detail of your face
as you slipped into slumber,
as you left without a trace.
And so comes December.
© Anonymous
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