The Moon, scrapes his stitches,
we slow-dance to his lament.
Clouds of rumors, yet to rain,
to words and words, my road is bent.
Didn't you had my all? Hush,
each lie comes alive in one red rose.
Unquestionably, I shall wait,
you took off the fire, I lay froze.
May 29, 2021
May 29, 2021 at 6:12 AM UTC
The Moon, scrapes his stitches,
we slow-dance to his lament.
Clouds of rumors, yet to rain,
to words and words, my road is bent.
Didn't you had my all? Hush,
each lie comes alive in one red rose.
Unquestionably, I shall wait,
you took off the fire, I lay froze.
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