Sep 2019
only morning skies mourn
the death of the stars;
icy cold,
as bright as flame,
they glimmered yesteryear:
a flash of warmth,
a wink of light,
then nothingness again
the death of the stars;
icy cold,
as bright as flame,
they glimmered yesteryear:
a flash of warmth,
a wink of light,
then nothingness again
will someone mourn you when you're gone? or will they pretend you were never there?
