I am dying.
With the crimson gentle stroll,
of the parched winter glow.
I am dying.
Of the thorns dwelling within the whisper's den,
and the menacing spikes of my broken pen.
I am dying.
From the agonizing tempest that pervaded my soul,
it is no more a riddle; an Apocalypse is born.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 5:23 PM UTC
I am dying.
With the crimson gentle stroll,
of the parched winter glow.
I am dying.
Of the thorns dwelling within the whisper's den,
and the menacing spikes of my broken pen.
I am dying.
From the agonizing tempest that pervaded my soul,
it is no more a riddle; an Apocalypse is born.
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