I am at a crescendo of this mercurially fervent woe, maimed by the visage of smoke and mirrors; "a death in chrysalis is to live once again."
Draping into the worn out disheveled silk, beautifully withered lulled by the sound of riverbanks as if it's pacifying the feral.
A star-lit eyes deluged with bliss rose with thorn-teared flesh overwhelmed by a mawkish melancholia. Although we were haunted by our old love, it will never be the same.
Pause Sunsets of Autumn The faintest undertone Whisper in the streets foretold, but the leaves, are full of colour that is bold Season of the soul, is that the smell of cinnamon, and cloves that are whole