niktinebraWhisper

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HumoursWhere perils cut / Do sorrows bleed? / Does pain depend upon / the laying of our scene / or are the
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Ceramic SwansI can hear you. You whisper to me. / Like a midnight vesper with your voice / cloaked in darkness, a
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Warnings UnheededAs if it were on fire, the earth around us aches with / burgundy and ochre. The sun herself has dimm
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Blindly We MarchOnward, we travel, eyes shielded by off-white -- / optimism. The blind lead the blind. Around our fe
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