"tinges" poems
The lower back arches
Muscles tangle in with the spine
And intertwining curvature sneaks between vertebras
Creating a vineyard of sweet spirits
That I could drink from the palms of your hands
As though the gentle and rough intentions
Had forever been engraved in a fate
That the universe hadn’t even planned for it
Otherwise the circumstances wouldn’t have been
And so foolish, I looked onward to the lit pavement
Walking between the crowd in hopes that
The grasping of my soul would stop from being tortured
In ways so tender that I wish I could expand in to the millions of atoms I am
Your skin felt like a warm liquid
That washed over your bones structure
Your eyes, those brown eyes
That looked at me with a shine that
I wasn’t sure if everyone else could see
And the light freckles and tinges of skin tone
Pixelated the platform of your body
And I, could look at you forever
Without even thinking twice about tomorrow
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
When we were young we used coloring books, full of black and white outlines just waiting for be made into something beautiful, waiting to be brought to life with colors.
When we were young the reaches of colors had no limits, we didn’t stick with what colors we are told were correct.
When we were young the princesses could be purple with green hair.
When we were young we didn’t know that the world is full of grey area, we didn’t realize that when you mix too many colors together all you get is a terrible shade of brown.
When we were young we let our imaginations run wild. We let our colors sparkle in the sun.
But, too many years with the sun beating down has faded our colors. Powerful beams slowly bleaching out the colors of joy, and sadness, rage and love. Until all that is left is white with little tinges of what used to be the worlds brightest hues turned grey.
We began to listen when we were told that the colors we had chosen were wrong. That a boy’s favorite color couldn’t be pink, that the trees and the grass had to be green, and the ocean was always blue.
The most pigmented personalities and the most vibrant people have become pastel, because it is easier to blend in with the crowd than stand out.
This world is not how it used to be, all of the color has been drained.
But, I think everyone has the potential to be filled with color. Everyone can be a light show at disney or fireworks on the fourth of july, everyone can be an easter egg, or a glow stick. Anyone can be a rainbow, they just have to let their colors be louder than the negativity of this messed up world.
So, spread your colors, blind everyone with your light, like that one teacher that doesn’t warn you before they turn on the lights. Play your music too loud, make sure that if they can’t see your colors they can hear them. Write, spill your heart out in words, stain the pages red with passion, or yellow with joy, or black when you are feeling hopeless.
Paint this world how you want,
Make the trees pink, and the grass blue,
And don’t color in the lines, because the most interesting pictures really never do.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
Above the forest of the parakeets,
A parakeet of parakeets prevails,
A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
(The rudiments of tropics are around,
Aloe of ivory, pear of rusty rind.)
His lids are white because his eyes are blind.
He is not paradise of parakeets,
Of his gold ether, golden alguazil,
Except because he broods there and is still.
Panache upon panache, his tails deploy
Upward and outward, in green-vented forms,
His tip a drop of water full of storms.
But though the turbulent tinges undulate
As his pure intellect applies its laws,
He moves not on his coppery, keen claws.
He munches a dry shell while he exerts
His will, yet never ceases, perfect ****
To flare, in the sun-pallor of his rock.
3.1k
Celia looked at her reflection
In the back of the spoon;
Her face was blown outward
As if captured on some balloon.
It almost made her laugh;
The memory of it;
How she and her sister Sassy
Would do that as kids,
Before the dark days,
Before her death in a bath.
That drowning, that sad death.
Sassy’s husband had beaten her
Black and blue and green
And she’d hide herself away
So as not to be seen.
But she’d seen her,
Seen the bruises
Like smudged tattoos,
The closed eyes,
The swollen lips,
The hardly able to talk words
Pushing through the mouth
To say: he says he loves me still.
Celia stared at her reflection,
The way her own mouth was distorted,
Her lips blown up, her eyes enlarged,
Out of proportion.
She almost laughed,
But something about Sassy’s sad death
Made her stifle any guffaw
That may have broken free
From her distorted reflected jaw.
There was the time she’d seen her
********** for bed when she stayed
Because Sassy’s husband (the weird freak)
Was off on business, some big deal,
Needing to be pulled off,
And she saw the black and blueness
With tinges of green
Along her naked flesh,
The buttocks welted
Where he had belted.
Sassy had said nothing,
Had not noticed Celia looking,
Had not thought it unusual
To be unclothed as such
Away from other’s peering eyes.
Now Sassy was dead;
Found in the bath;
Drugged out, wrists slit,
Having drowned recorded.
But he had driven her over the edge;
He had bullied and beaten
Like some spoilt cruel child
An unwanted toy.
Celia turned the spoon over
And put it down.
No more desire to laugh,
Just fond memories of Sassy
Before her death in the bath.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 2:04 AM UTC
What's up?
Nothing much just a visualized image of a homicide.
Sometimes the mind wonders around thinking of someones death.
Imagining grey matter splatter across 4 walls, out of the 4 walls of your bedroom.
Your pet cat is fine and seems unmoved as it sits grooming.
Sometimes this event occurs because hopefully you've fallen onto hard times with ****
Other times it's just the usual thing, wrong place wrong time.
It's kind of a game of cat and mouse; the only thing Jerry is that my dreams don't come out as a cartoon.
Sometimes the process of muscle and bone twinges leave a sweet rhythmatic tune.
But the one I like the best is when you pay for your own suicide, it's only worth a dime.
The insides pool and leave such provocative tinges.
Your new found beauty is the only thing that can make me cringe.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC
The trees smile with their sprout of tender leaves and blooming flowers,
Eternal nature with its transient expression,
Hails spring with joy!
Bewildering shades with so many tinges.
The land of beauty and greatness
Colour of happiness and peace makes people alive to enjoy the spirit.
A celebration of colour
And
An experience of harmony and delight.
Gulal of red, green, yellow and countless colour also explains the colourful meaning of life,
A day filled with laughter and gaiety,
A day to smear our dreams
With a splash of vibrant colours
The festival of colour brings a spring of unbounded fun and frolic!!
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 2:32 PM UTC
I lay still as if I were a breathing corps.
My heartbeat reminds me I still live.
My mind wanders aimlessly;
It drifts in and out of the borders of valid conception,
and withers to its content.
Am I alive,
or waking from a prolonged dream?
These thoughts contradict my understanding of this world.
They break the grips of my reality,
and plunge me into the unknown.
Although the notion tinges a world of fear.
My perspective shifts;
My consciousnesses fades away
and is vibrantly replaced
by a wave of blissful euphoria.
This is a strange existence.
Time is irregular;
It means nothing here.
Days seem like seconds;
minutes seem like weeks.
O' to what a mishap,
a folly happenstance,
a fringe to conventionality.
To who or what pleasure
do I owe?
Part of me wishes to leave this place.
Albeit a part wishes to remain.
I am in love with this realm,
yet I know there is somewhere else
that I must be.
So now I set sail
to find the world that I came from;
with a pleasant gift from the one I left.
I look upon an old existence,
with new eyes.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 12:55 AM UTC
The slightest brush
of melancholy
tinges the evening:
that time of day
when ghosts awaken
and memories stir;
that time of day
when thousands
of lives lived
lean into now.
Where are you,
bright eyed lover?
I need a
gentle boost
to lift me above
this roar of silence,
this emptiness
that fills the
twilight.
Come to me.
Sing me songs
until smiles return
and we will smile
together.
~mce
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
Seeds of pure Brahma appear
In the dark nothingness.
In their infinitesimal
Yet infinite dimensions
They carry the code for all creation.
Some fade away.
Some persist.
Propelled through will,
An urgency to occupy and diffuse.
Annihilation or coalition are inevitable.
Some acquire magnificent tinges
Worthy of acknowledgement.
Others marred and maimed
Are left to wither in exile.
I meditate on the most promising one.
Feel its inarticulatable essence
As the intangible element
Vanquish the void.
The One now unfolds.
Accreting into thoughts
Before passing through
The sieve of judgement.
These thoughts sublime I crystallize.
Choosing at will to blemish them
With motley emotions
Or monolithic reason.
I,
The creator,
Awestruck by my own creation,
The most magnificent in the domain
Wherein I reign supreme,
Hesitate.
I hesitate to articulate.
Knowing full well that tongue
Will never be able to bear
The simple complexity
And the complex simplicity
Of thought.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
Colors, have ways of making us soar,
or fall.......they make us buoy...
they, too, can divide and isolate...
long ago, a magazine
was colored and identified for a reason.....
also,
a kind of blue-sy music, upon which i groove,
...was named for the same reason...
.............a magazine..... a music genre,
became instruments...and parts of
dark and golden moments.......recalled
and enjoyed, every now and then...they're
painted.......registered in people's minds....
life is a magazine of stories, of poetry...
life is a jukebox...filled with soundtracks
life is an album...a collection of smiles
...of colorful images and emotions
reddish brown at first...turning yellow brown,
with tinges of taupe.......mottled through the years,
turning...into fading shades of sepia...
i refuse my late summer moments on earth
............to be done in Grisaille,
painted, only in tones of grey and dark green...
...it is written...one day, life would be hued with
subdued colors...the blues, silvers and grays,
...........will be cold as winter...
but, until then,
i'd rather be consumed with liveliness
i would adorn my days with peach and lilac
blossoms, hang fuschia pink pennants
on my wall....to brighten my disposition,
i'd practice...play the guitar once again,
i'll wear my ruffled, dappled-purple skirt,
and yellow converse sneakers when i walk on
the pavement....under blue skies that enhance
greens, and gold...colors that breathe existence
transforming weariness to courage...
wherever...whenever, however possible,
i speak, whisper to God words of gratitude,
and endless thanksgiving...i pray for strength.
and acceptance........prepare myself...when,
.....i, too...would face my own moments,
...............of fading sepia.
Sally
Copyright August 6, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 10:34 PM UTC
April...my early sonnets...leaning on the windowsill as the streets were mad rivers, Mum in bed just behind me--ya, I've long been the nightowl, though how many times I'd hang out with her when I did.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCLXVIII)
Ah, silver gloaming whose soft light is thence
More yellow than wee baby leaves' detail
Of green chartreuse as rain now waltzes, pale
Yet with that subtler voice in tow, lawns hence
Thick carpets laid out 'gainst grey racks a sense
Of pink like fragile mists haunts to avail,
These naked boughs in lingerie black's scale
Just tinges, April clothed ere nightfall, whence?
O me! The blacktop sports thin puddles fer
A touch of wet, and Friday's hallowed to
Some, good cuz dunno why, as we talk. Were
It taxes or the missiles elsewhere, who
Shall--what? I listen, laugh, want Andrew, poor
As saying is, and recall Mum: all we knew.
14Apr17c
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC
Spells of chieftain splendor
Bespeaking of loyal grandeur
Now the eye clearly sees without fear
At dusk!
The ancient kingdom of Assur?
A flight in time and space from afar?
Was that ingenious creativity of flair?
Still bids indubitable eternal mystery!
Are clothes on man an anecdote of utter hypocrisy?
Is sarcastic humor a precursor of hidden sinister?
The animals hereof show their ******
Undertone tinges of impeccant simplicity
Stirring poignant Achilles' heel character
As an infant suckling the breast of saccharine nature;
Lo! And behold…
Sage mortals envisage a grotesque quest for a promising stage,
Regnant and dignified?
The new-age psyches’ beatify and feebly beg
"Reform, in fact, is, rather softly, on the win”
The lighthouse flashing against the sleet-blurred fig twig
As every sacred notion becomes an unwavering origin certain,
With no remorse that mankind can now ascertain
The bewildering incarnation of science in religion!
Like a single lily among lilies in a dark dungeon
Great spirits now encounter violent opposition
“Un-awakened Children silently screaming with pessimism”
Hiding within the smooth sacred mask of personality
Yet the fear of “the unknown” silently plays a drowsier symphony
Calling back the violent rays to illuminate a peaceable destiny
Were illusionary realities conform to the whims of a veiled deity,
This goddess!
A mystifying inferno doing its own radiance faster
What a fuss!
So light-footed as love yet so heavy-footed as war
As if to justify the whirling gloom of despair
Like the bleakness of the morning cuckooing rooster
Or the dog which barks at his own image in a pond;
“What startling veneration”
Mortals without remorse still aspire to find
The misplaced diamonds and daffs upon the beamish ground.
Muhumuza Kenneth Ezra.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 3:46 AM UTC
On the muted music of the zephyr, the viridescent folks' dance and the fluffs veiled in white, sallow, and orange tinges glide in the mid-air. In this pristine swathe shield by a mysterious guard against intruders, there's no gravity to land from jovial vibrations.
© Spriha Kant
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 1:04 PM UTC
*Odium above all odiums, I have militancy of you now
For I own isochronism; A vigor grim dispute; not now
Your slaying too vile
Uncouth by demands
Which was the admonition I had previously
Whod've known I'd command
Garble after garble, I'm Dexterrized where I stand
Dun and gnaw your way out, go on
The un-zoetic soon will spawn
Out with gyp of hints that dwindle
Furbishing these tinges; out the window of innuendos*
Nov 21, 2010
Nov 21, 2010 at 5:04 PM UTC
once upon a time, you were every story in my head. you were fantasies woven during day and prose written at 3AM. i saw so much poetry in you, in everything you did. that was a sure sign that i felt something for you, that my love ran deeper than plain infatuation and crushing.
i wrote about how your smile could light up the darkest of days; my sunshine, my flashlight. i wrote about how beautiful i thought the callouses on your hands were, i wrote about how your flaws were never imperfections to me. i wrote about the lyrics you remind me of. i wrote your name in cursive on the back of my hand along with words of promise and endearment. i scribbled you through the margins of my notebook with poetry and song.
but oh, it wasn’t all just fairy dust and wanderlust.
my pen bled ugly words, rage and heartbreak and jealousy. prose after prose of how you’d leave me in the rain, how you always made me feel like i was either too much or not enough. they were angry taps to the keyboard. pens tearing in to paper. the horrors of them made e.e cummings turn in his grave, the curses of young love would have made shakespeare proud.
you knew about that. you knew about how i meticulously wove words together for you, words that would have made other people fall in love. and not once did you appreciate them; you threw aside my gifts of poetry and prose like they weren’t about you. like they didn’t mean a thing.
if you read them, you would’ve seen how much i adored you. if you read them, you would’ve recognized a love so unprecedented, unrivaled, untouchable. but you didn’t. you never got past the first stanza, the first paragraph, the first three words before giving me a half-hearted thanks and changing the topic.
and so i started to write about you less. my words began to lose it’s substance, my phrases got shorter, my metaphors making less sense. and you didn’t notice. you never noticed how you slowly faded from the thing the one thing that mattered more to me than anything in the whole world.
you faded, then you were gone completely.
i no longer write about you. wait, no, that’s a lie: i no longer want to write about you. i hope this is the last time i do, the last set of words i’d dare to pull together for you. you don’t deserve to know how i feel about you, you don’t deserve my poems or my words anymore. god knows my words are all i have, and i can’t love you if you don’t learn to love them. i’m sorry; call it selfish, or unfair. but these words, these words, my words. how can i write about you if you don’t– if you never– valued the best gift i had to offer?
you’re now just some left-over papers that i keep under my bed, one day to open and read with tinges of nostalgia, but never to re-write again.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 3:04 AM UTC
I'm overcome with sadness
It's not the biting sadness
The choked sobs
that are brought about
by the jolt of a sudden death
or the fresh sting of
a broken relationship
It's not the aching sadness
The somber introspection
of missed opportunities,
of wasted days
of long lost loves
It's not the oppressive sadness
that depression brings,
wrapping around your head
in suffocating silence
that leaves you numb to the world
that makes you believe that happiness was
only a fairy tale
Rather...
It's the warm sadness
as the tinges of autumn begin to show
and you realize that the summer
was never meant to last forever
It's a familiar sadness as you realize
that everyone changes
and the person you once were
no longer exists, for better or worse
It's the sadness that nostalgia
tows along with fond memories
of summer vacations
of drunken antics
of foolish lust
of fading friendships
The sadness that tells you that
"Things will never be this way again"
But also reminds you that they were never supposed to be
and that's perfectly alright
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
I have read a sonnet of tragedy
I have read about melancholy too
I know what that means if you have that love
Appreciate if he be God above
tragedy-melancholy be the same
a sonnet of drama disappointment
full of autumnal rustling leaves actions
the finest tinges down in the abyss
the sonnet of my tender love my bliss
I address this only to my darling
sweetheart, honey, how can I call you now?
regard this sonnet as my purest vow
you know that this sonnet is meant for you
my precious truest vow for you, darling
© SYLVIA FRANCES CHAN
Friday, 5th December 2014
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
I think back to our first moments together.
Sneaking eyes under flower crowns and balloons.
Looking across crowds of people for you subconsciously,
noticing you noticing me noticing you.
To look back on that time tinges everything with a vintage haze,
like viewing the history before something monumental.
Each person holding their breath and each step bringing us closer
to everything.
I want to go back to the first time I asked myself "what if it's us?";
the first time I truly saw you for everything that you could grow to mean to me.
Jan 16, 2021
Jan 16, 2021 at 8:12 PM UTC
The singing of guitars sends flickering sparks from the ground,
like fireflies, dancing with the tinges of sound,
a beautiful limitless sky unfolded before us,
It could be torn down for them, if they wanted.
Introspection brings silence on public transportation,
because of independent movie scenes that break the outcasts' form,
and so they wear their pea-coats and knit caps,
and paint the picture that they're unique,
when the individuality of an individual cannot be measured through appearance alone,
it is a life-spanning process,
in the choices we make,
and the promises we break,
and the pills that we take,
that erase our memories and turn us into marble statues,
beautiful husks with nothing really inside.
We say that we're profound,
and advanced,
so we take to the ground
without another glance
and shake this rock to its core,
just to find the meaning,
of suburban children,
who spend their lives dreaming,
to prevent rhyme or reason,
cannot be the case,
as across any seasons,
winds will whip your face,
and hold their sting,
as if to say,
“you are the sum of percentages,
dividing the minutes in a day.”,
standing on this precipice,
can we dare to try,
to make real these internal lists,
and bring them in contact with eyes?
The critic a pauper,
The sinner be free,
realization of our appetites,
limitless.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:09 AM UTC
Arpita ,-The Only one .
There is one ,
Only one Arpita ,
With ten thousands synonyms ,
And two Nature’s amplitude ,
To cover sense of love ,and that of feeling ,
The widened unconquered ,
Ripples beyond the horizon ,
And the frictionless revere ,
Mingles with the waited time ,
Lo ! the colossal silence chambers the rime .
Hers is the eternal Divine in love ,
And she tinges the hearts ,
With the magic fragrance of frenzy ,
She impels ,she awakens the slumbering soul ,
There is only one Arpita , that arises and rolls !
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
i'll be the one fattening the nationalists like
they're worthy to inherit the swine skidding
kinds of talk of the famous winged Hussar toppling
mountain in stone as in grain of sand: avalanche -
and akin to a crows' kraken bellowing: gluttonous kra!
und tod! schatten överskuggar död:
and what yearn be dripped in acknowledged European -
loftier thought than done, kindred of what's called
the civilised / colonial world - toward the auburn horizontal -
and in due bereaving: left undone, and unduly asked for:
to be grasped as worshipped, quasi Lutheran,
mingling Calvinist and Catholic... but never the love affair
of Henry VIII. so much of modern English
history is bound to Las Vegas, and so much to the Hajj toward
Jerusalem no one cares about... then so few to mind
the invasion of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth by the Swedes... because this is England,
and Cockney speaks, usurper of the royal tongue, due to pride,
due to the elephant man, due to jack the ripper and
harry the stinker... and the joyous rhapsody coming
from the lonely mile in Irish slang; or said: Mamelukes -
because the Mongols were at one point defeated -
and thus grieved the Baghdad skull with tinges of Hamlet -
oh the grand library, what was left of it, could remain
enshrined in Texan avoidance - not to be:
Chilcot Coke - Cooled Coca and later Koala - Bruise and White -
thugs' select - later respect'ah - bony g and later bonbon
and much later bony m - and much much
later Alfonso Jalfrezi - alias gaga: and all the culinary sagas,
the Forsytes of Malta... or the Forsytes of Málaga?
i'm sure that question is all about:
wherever the peppercorn blows
and wherever the sneeze deposits a hunch
toward an itchy cartilage - from an itch and a scratch:
a butterfly! well, isn't this
the most beautiful of all possible worlds...
sorta makes you want to get up in the morning
and say good-morning to someone.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
<>
11:03 Sun Sep 20 2020
2nd Day Rosh Hashana 5781
S.I., N.Y.
**when I was twenty years younger, I wrote oft introspectively,
nowadays, today, provoked by the High Holy Day, the New Year,**
it is my only filter, lens, and this solitary perspective that this moment affords, permits, demands, commands, insists on,
prepared by this confession, so that I may better return to the union of my divine spark, unify body and soul, recover my true self,
by acknowledging that I am
not beholden to anyone,
therefore, thereby,
beholden to everyone
how inconsistently wonderful that additional experience, alive in a time of upheavals, pushes me past the first stanza, where most often, my poems, prayers, go to rest uneasy, incomplete, only to be buried alive in me.
Yet, here I am stuttering, sputtering, words that come unexpectedly!
I have reached a second stanza, with the ending well sighted, nearby. The collective, overlaid wake of each passing boat, finger pointing, a road line for following, to a larger directive, a river emptying into a great ocean, birthplace & graveyard
premature celebration as it’s weeks till I return to this poem-in-progress on a bleak week, the winterized grays have dominated, the freshness of sunlight is just an occasional peekaboo.
The larger directive now suppressed, the pilings of damp brown leaves, multi-message; funeral. mounds of good days gone to hell, the inward perspective has returned me to a deep, dark place.
(Stutter, stutter, each day asseverates solemnly with tinges of rancor, no, no, no, still no answers yet, the second and third stanzas are ******** suns of no man.)
Dec 19, 2020
Dec 19, 2020 at 9:42 AM UTC
Deep blue, deep blue - morning by the ocean -
The same ocean as my ancestors,
And their ancestors,
And their ancestors -
The same ocean as the dinosaurs -
And so I can't help smiling,
Feeling a part of a long long long lineage of ocean dwellers and dreamers -
Folks who fell in love with the romantic tinges of Ocean's Eternity -
Wrapped up neatly in coming/going tides,
In and out, in and out
Without ever stopping
Because eternity stops for no one -
And so I smile, knowing that my body will one day join
The millions of my ancestors and their ancestors
Deep deep deep in that blue rushing infinity called "sea" -
And freedom crashes upon skin
Washing away dirt and cleansing the mind for a new day -
Part of the old day -
Day of the same eternity -
And there I smile -
In the deep blue,
Because there's always more beyond the horizon -
Another land, another shore -
And I always yearn for more
Because the sky is my witness
And the ocean is my woman
And the three of us melt together into the circus of Life
Where we each pretend to be separate for a little while -
But in the deep blue silence of night,
We secretly whisper our memory of unity
Under the safe-hold haven of moonlight and stars,
Keeping warm under the blanket of infinite space -
And I smile knowing I'm never alone,
Even when the tide leaves me
To rejoin that deep deep Blue.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
knocks on your door
hey, have you eaten
silence answers me
empty of feeling
i stand for a moment
maybe a moment too long
strike a match of conversations
eye contact too strong
he wandered down the hall
looks like he’s waiting too
my hips on the wall
smirk as if he knew
what was on my mind
look deep inside and would not find
for my thoughts were shallow
temporary tinges, restraint on the hinges
a shuffled playlist on down low
can you hear me now?
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 4:45 AM UTC
Trying to fathom
the science of colours, the
beautiful swarm of
shades and tinges: the abyss
and the heaven in your eyes.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 3:28 PM UTC