You are the freshly aged petals on the page.
Pressed first up against a cheek or two and dried to last forever.
Transcending all stages of beauty and living long after withering.
Your soul extends beyond the softness in your texture - the sweet scent of all your cracking gestures.
You cannot change the closing of the day - the frosty creeks still rush to all your heart does say.
You have plucked the petals from your budding heart and we pick them up to keep as art, because your flailing is a performance.
Your movements are enticing, you sway to all desire, the sounds murmured by your coarse crying voice inspire.
The beauty is in your entire existence.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:42 AM UTC
You are the freshly aged petals on the page.
Pressed first up against a cheek or two and dried to last forever.
Transcending all stages of beauty and living long after withering.
Your soul extends beyond the softness in your texture - the sweet scent of all your cracking gestures.
You cannot change the closing of the day - the frosty creeks still rush to all your heart does say.
You have plucked the petals from your budding heart and we pick them up to keep as art, because your flailing is a performance.
Your movements are enticing, you sway to all desire, the sounds murmured by your coarse crying voice inspire.
The beauty is in your entire existence.
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