the misted air
that arrives with the winter nights are laced with something strange
The more I breath them in, I don't want to throw them out not that soon
I want to hold them long enough
that they could reach deep enough
Enough to wet the bits of my soul
That has grown infertile and dry
Over the time, when the air around was not warm but burnt deep
And I exhaled smoke while the heart skipped its beat
Nov 24, 2020
Nov 24, 2020 at 1:57 PM UTC
the misted air
that arrives with the winter nights are laced with something strange
The more I breath them in, I don't want to throw them out not that soon
I want to hold them long enough
that they could reach deep enough
Enough to wet the bits of my soul
That has grown infertile and dry
Over the time, when the air around was not warm but burnt deep
And I exhaled smoke while the heart skipped its beat
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