If love had ever had an antidote, then it would be all the words that we never spoke; buried by the linguistic silence of our throats.
Few are the poems that I have wrote, yet the pens might as well be Chinese, that I have broke. Our love was once an eagle's wings, custom made to sing hymns whilst we sinned; like mere children, so impassioned by any and everything - Now love is the yoke, both burdensome and binding.
Jan 31, 2021
Jan 31, 2021 at 2:33 PM UTC
If love had ever had an antidote, then it would be all the words that we never spoke; buried by the linguistic silence of our throats.
Few are the poems that I have wrote, yet the pens might as well be Chinese, that I have broke. Our love was once an eagle's wings, custom made to sing hymns whilst we sinned; like mere children, so impassioned by any and everything - Now love is the yoke, both burdensome and binding.