My heart of papier mache, dissolved in tears.
From tired days
and wearied years.
Angelic writing,
I read her line.
An Enchanted diary.
I just felt our souls, intertwine.
Here's to a life,
without expiry.
I thought about
how lost I was. High,
on a cosmetic buzz.
I heard her voice all around.
Then, I heard it resound.
But how was that? she's not alive,
She died of typhus,
spring of 1945.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 9:42 PM UTC
My heart of papier mache, dissolved in tears.
From tired days
and wearied years.
Angelic writing,
I read her line.
An Enchanted diary.
I just felt our souls, intertwine.
Here's to a life,
without expiry.
I thought about
how lost I was. High,
on a cosmetic buzz.
I heard her voice all around.
Then, I heard it resound.
But how was that? she's not alive,
She died of typhus,
spring of 1945.
Stupid
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