Oh the colour of emerald green
Tis so pure I ever have seen
My legs go weak when they look at me
The look of my one true love.
Oh the colour of beautiful brown
From your eyes it can be found
I am lost when you’re not around
The look of my one true love.
Oh the colour of autumn grey
Keeps me happy and keeps me safe
I swear just once I almost did taste
The look of my one true love.
Oh the colours that are in the pot
I know they will never forget me not
Your eyes so deep I can see the lot
The look of my one true love
About the Creator
GARY DEAN
Started writing in 2009, after getting made redundant from my job. Now it is a hobby, something I can enjoy and play about with.
https://twitter.com/Gaznt?s=09
https://sites.google.com/site/gdeanscreativewritingspot/Home
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
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