She doesn't recite poems in the darkish sunset
like golden corns dying to be reaped
she needs a hand to cut her through
reach to where a fleshless lust is still not ember.
Seasons come and fly away.
Her own poems withering
she pines for one simple nest
to rest.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
She doesn't recite poems in the darkish sunset
like golden corns dying to be reaped
she needs a hand to cut her through
reach to where a fleshless lust is still not ember.
Seasons come and fly away.
Her own poems withering
she pines for one simple nest
to rest.
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