Jun 2019
My soul, what is left of it,
is stale. Like bread weeks old.
The dust gathered in the pit
is old, so old.
The emotion is long gone.
The senses are dulled.
And my heart…?
What heart?
is stale. Like bread weeks old.
The dust gathered in the pit
is old, so old.
The emotion is long gone.
The senses are dulled.
And my heart…?
What heart?
