winter babies cry in the summer time – still thinking
about dying twice, still questioning this one life;
still questing to find still waters – still won’t we be
dying inside; drowning softy?
still silence – I don’t know my place; until I close
my eyes, and can’t see any of my shame. the moon gnaws
off a bit of myself – as putting on a brave face in the day,
is our nature.
_we are lost lambs, that bleat themselves into silence._
Jan 20, 2025
Jan 20, 2025 at 12:53 AM UTC
winter babies cry in the summer time – still thinking
about dying twice, still questioning this one life;
still questing to find still waters – still won’t we be
dying inside; drowning softy?
still silence – I don’t know my place; until I close
my eyes, and can’t see any of my shame. the moon gnaws
off a bit of myself – as putting on a brave face in the day,
is our nature.
_we are lost lambs, that bleat themselves into silence._
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