"wounding" poems
What's wrong with you, with us,
what's happening to us?
Ah our love is a harsh cord
that binds us wounding us
and if we want
to leave our wound,
to separate,
it makes a new knot for us and condemns us
to drain our blood and burn together.
What's wrong with you? I look at you
and I find nothing in you but two eyes
like all eyes, a mouth
lost among a thousand mouths that I have kissed, more beautiful,
a body just like those that have slipped
beneath my body without leaving any memory.
And how empty you went through the world
like a wheat-colored jar
without air, without sound, without substance!
I vainly sought in you
depth for my arms
that dig, without cease, beneath the earth:
beneath your skin, beneath your eyes,
nothing,
beneath your double breast scarcely
raised
a current of crystalline order
that does not know why it flows singing.
Why, why, why,
my love, why?
29.6k
“the simplest definition of our learning to count to infinity”
*wrote those words
to a stranger in pain, awful pain,
asking him to count his blessings*
*now awful pain
no stranger to me
a pain four decades long,
that the surgeon promised was fully excised.
but today was triggered,
chest pain dagger ingredient emergency room
so I am counting for,
but not to,
counting on
infinity
when the wounding cannot be recalled,
only a minor scar to struggle from wonder whence
came it from
which is the definition of reaching the
infinity place,*
where finite comes to rest
Dec 10, 2019
Dec 10, 2019 at 5:37 PM UTC
...a diary of the falling dominoes chapter
invisibly dying from the inside out
no one is looking into unseen eyes
no one can hear a muted voice fading
no one is close enough to be near
the deafening thrums echo
anxieties’ racing heartbeat
within morphing flesh shell ,
gasping for new breath
in a hovering stale silence
from a distance
the broken mirror ricochets a subdued light ;
much closer the reflection reveals
someone I once knew by heart
now an unrecognizable mask
enshrouds a terminal emptiness
inconspicuous at a fleeting glance ,
impossible to discern what storms rage
from the inside out ,... unnoticed
an uncontained wildfire
smoldering within, lies in wait
for the imminent winds of change
to fan the flames into the final
eternal silent ashes
a poet reaches out demurely
offering a candid look
into the window
of the imperfect human soul
there is no poetry
met by indifference
just gathered unread words scribbled,
squandered time
dripped slowly on an empty page ;
moments turn into days
days turned into years
invisibly dying from the inside out
an unfinished life trickles out
like seeping blood evanescing
from a bottomless puncture
wounding ... penetrating the heart,
leaching out the slow death of a poet
for poetry is only words unless they touch someone ...
befallen to indifference is poetic death
by salted paper cuts ...
a muting suffocation
that hiddenly erodes away,
silencing the passion
of a musing soul
one unread word at a time ...
© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
He does not think before he speaks
Wounding all with words he meets
A trail of destruction left behind
Oblivious of his dysfunctional mind
Never wrong he's always right
Insecurity is his plight
An enemy to himself within
Everything always about him
No middle ground
No compromise
He'll twist the truth
With articulate lies
His ego grandiose
As he stands tall
His aim to watch you
Retreat and fall
Emotionally void
From the human race
Defiance etched upon his face
Your life now fraught with pain and worry
As he does never intend to say
I'm sorry
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
of evident invisibles
exquisite the hovering
at the dark portals
of hurt girl eyes
sincere with wonder
a poise a wounding
a beautiful suppression
the accurate boy mouth
now droops the faun head
now the intimate flower dreams
of parted lips
dim upon the syrinx
8.3k
You pick up your needles
and knit together your lies
you make a scarf
of all different feelings
blue, red, green, yellow
beautiful
but that doesn't mean
i don't hate it.
You drape it around my neck
wounding it around and around
tight, tighter, too tight
i choke back my words
i now look beautiful
but that doesn't mean
i don't hate you.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
Pretty is a six-letter word that can’t encompass your entire being in its arms. You were born to a mother who wore pain like trees wear their rings, as marks of fierce bravery and battle cries. You almost split her insides open coming out, wailing so hard the plaster cracked, but she grinned and bore it like a champion, even though the walls of her womb felt like one giant cigarette burn that no one cared enough to put out.
You are Icarus incarnate, with a body stitched from wings, flying toward the sun every day no matter how low the storm clouds hover. Pretty is not a synonym for learning how to put together a body that fights itself every day with pocket knives, like assembling letters to form words that flame in the mouth. That’s called survival. Pretty is an ugly word. It leaves behind a bitter residue that apologies cannot erase. Pretty is just an excuse for playing darts with a woman’s confidence.
When told you are not pretty, always remember how your body expanded to fit its widening cage, its blooming hips, how the growing pains were less like pain and more like cracking fault lines. How your body turned itself inside out and spilled over and over again. Getting emptied is not pretty. It is dark and wounding and it requires strength enough to move mountains.
On your worst days do not look in the mirror and call yourself pretty. Call yourself trying, call yourself surviving, call yourself learning how to get through a day, a week, a month or year. Call yourself still learning. Pretty is just six letters for lipstick, false eyelashes, combs for hair that never gets tangled, not for women who earn a victory every day just managing to exist.
When told you are not pretty, do not **** in your stomach. Pretty is a discriminatory word, but having a body that knows what it wants and gets what it wants is not a hate crime. It’s a healing hymn.
Don’t forget how trees shake their last leaves in winter like they’re shedding skin from the old year. Shed pretty. Shed it now. Teach yourself to replace it with heart-wrenching, brilliant, clever, artistic, unique, understanding, fighting. Always living.
When told you are not pretty, don’t fall in love with the ground. Get back up. This is not an apocalypse; this is not the end of the world. A six-letter word doesn’t have the power to burn down every building in site or freeze the entire world in epic proportions. Your body is not wreckage or refuse left over from a world on fire. Your body is just fine.
Look in the mirror. Tell yourself, Pretty is not me. Pretty is an ugly concept. I am more.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 6:59 AM UTC
The Albatross
Lone de-odorizer of the toilet
Its smooth contour covered in a clear blanket
Wrapped around with cheap plastic,
Adorned with cheap silk, the semi-lucent plastic
Like unwrapping a yema
It smells very sweet. Very, very.
You seldom notice this white bird
In your long hours of comforting, brooding
Hungering for attention beneath the swollen toilet
Asking for unwanted pleasures
The toilet asks "why must I feed?”
The Albatross mums in its silent reprieve.
Still you didn’t notice the wounding
Of your smooth oily toilet
In long comforting hours of sleep;
No, only excretion is wanted here.
The albatross takes away the scourge
The scourge beneath your noses
And still you didn’t notice
The glory in its inexistence
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / June 28, 2008)
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
I wake up
Each morning,
Head to my closet,
And arm myself
With clothes
Thick as brick walls.
I rummage
Through various
Pairs of greeve-like
Pants
Looking for
The right foundation
On which I
Will build
The day's
Exoskeleton.
Fix my hair
Like the rest
Of mankind.
Hair that
Acts as the cloak
That ascribes me
To anonimity.
Before I leave
I put on the
Weight of
My outer person,
The one which
I have carefully
Built out of
Various yous
And none of me.
The skin
That I Have worn
To see my soul
Forlorn.
I go, parade myself
Like a sentinel
Emblazoned
With all the
Merits;
Look and behold
A hero that
Beckons to all who pass
A hero who
Hides all the dross
Of the Inside.
The inside
of whatever is left
Of my
Dying kingdom.
I go as a bastion
With jutted spears
And sharpened pikes
Wounding those
Who advance
Whether in peace
Or in strife.
No, I will not
Let anyone
Through the gates
Of my starving
King.
All my life
I was being
Built as a
Stronghold.
Father, as a mason,
Taught me
That strength
Is measured
Through how
Much pressure
My structure
Can endure.
Mother, as an artisan,
Raised me
As a dam
That will not break.
Taught me
That my worth
Is measured in the
Volumes that I can keep.
Suffering be now
The mortar
That binds all my griefs
Together.
Pain, *****
Barricades
Around my thirsting
Prince.
Comrade,
Stay as a facade;
Hide the muck
That have accumulated
Throughout
The years.
Lover,
break me down.
Strip me of all
My armor,
Break down the walls.
Turn my spears
Into soft dandelion *****
Wade through the tar
And see
Through the veil.
Unseam
All my scars;
Bleed me dry
Until you reach my core.
See me for
Who I am.
Witness the king
That I have
deprived.
Caress the face
Of the prince
That I have denied.
Satiate my famished spirit,
Oh, you, lover of my soul.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 8:18 AM UTC
red stains, fading, cracked, scented
_if i kissed your prints, would they kiss me back?_
sighs, thoughts, spaces between prints
spaces between words, between parted lips and floating thoughts the world! is so crowded with space but yours is the one i want to fill .
but where are the lines? lines of loss, lines of lawns, lines of ink and rips and more stains and letters, in the hands and on the pavement
where are the lines?
why won't you go there?
why do you hover in these foul, indomitable spaces? why do you seek that which you should not?
if the shadow of lines slinks in your quiet expression, then why are you still here?
if the echo of your soft face lingers in my hands, if the whisper of your breath and the heat of your skin still singes my own, then why do you disappear?
lovely wraith, lovely memory of a thing that once was, why do you sit so alone?
because i am coming to your space, and if you can see me, of shadow and fog, then i will meet you there,
on a line of our own.
_>because it's a death premeditated and i can see it unfolding,_
_sharp wounding painful_
_and the discourse in the sky is telling me so, yet why do i keep walking west?_
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
I never asked you for the things you gave me
I never asked
But you didn't even care
If I had asked,
would you have shut me out?
Or would you have given more?
Of your overflowing wine
of life or love or energy
( or whatever it was
that you folded into my hands
like the most secret-sacred treasure map )
You would sometimes catch me
In a gaze like a doe
Ask me things
That took time to sink in
Because I was being distracted
By my urge to count your eyelashes
We could never go outside in the cold
Because you were terrified
That your breath would crystallize and twist inside your lungs
But you loved to see how long you could hold your breath for
Underwater
There would be pauses
As time stilled to take a look at us
To check that we really were still there
And everything around us swirled
Like autumn leaves or glitter stars
Our glances would solidify
And memory struck out to capture snapshots
Everly, I never asked
Not even once, but you still gave
Everly, I can't quite grasp
I see you sometimes
When the sunshine's wounding bright
Yellow, cheerful, heavenly
And I look into the shadows
To find rest for my eyes
I can never keep straight the present and the past
So when I look in the shade
I see ghosts of you sprawled out, laughing, head tilted back, hands splayed
Your sighs were soft
But you only ever sighed them
When your face shone
With a lovely glow of indulgence
We watched Hitchcock religiously
We wouldn't give them up
You said that you liked Vertigo the best
But you never told me why
I'll hold your friendship
In the cup of my hands
While wonder fills up slowly
Where my thoughts should be
I'll peer over my thumbs
To steal a peek at the clear blue crystalline
Effervescent memories
I will remember you foreverly
My word
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 11:37 AM UTC
This is not an accident. I used to call him
a lazy criminal. Scooping hearts and spilling blood,
leaving footprints, fingerprints. Stains.
Eyes folding over -- the blindman or the beggar?
Lips that blossomed into blueprints.
Hands that rhymed with dreams, instead.
The weeknights, dark and warm
in a season of curled paper.
No speaking -- guilt only follows
past the second trip through the door.
And then the mornings.
More sun in him than the greenhouse
where we watched dragonfly wings.
A pattern about him
like dragonfly wings.
In those days we knew
what it meant to point
without wounding.
We knew how to need someone
without wanting,
without loving.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
I have longed to be like Jesus since the day I was reborn
With a heart formed by the Father, by His hands so strong and warm
For although my soul was perfect, this old heart had far to go
It was lofty and self serving; never broken, hard as stone
But the only way to change my heart was not to mold like clay
He must carve it with a chisel that would break the stone away
So pain became my teacher and its lessons I learned well
As every trial would test me with each wounding swing that fell
One day I asked my Father as He formed His shapeless art
"Where did You find that chisel, Lord, that breaks so hard my heart?"
He took me to a village, somewhere, long before my time
And showed me where a blacksmith, there, was working near his mine
The local king had ordered that some special spikes be made
To perform a certain service later on that ancient day
The smith stoked up his furnace till it singed his heavy beard
And the strikes that made his hammer ring were heard by every ear
Then he spun the massive whetstone, pressed each spike against its edge
And the sparks shot out like lightening as he sharpened up the ends
The spikes, still warm from grinding, then were gathered in a cloth
And delivered to the mountain with the prisoner and the cross
Instantly I understood just what he made them for
The chisels used to shape my heart first crucified my Lord
Now every stroke that life will bring I'll welcome like a prize
For every chip that falls away will make me more like Christ
May 30, 2011
May 30, 2011 at 3:14 PM UTC
In the greenest meadow,
With the clearest stream,
And the bluest sky,
There lived a lion.
His mane golden and his teeth white.
He had not yet tasted the flesh of deer.
On the other side of the meadow,
There lived a doe.
Her fur was a silken brown.
She knew not of lions.
The lion saw the doe, and was in awe.
She was clean, she was beautiful.
He wanted a taste.
He spoke to her in low, calming tones.
Speaking to her lovely lies.
He said he craved a taste of her flesh.
She fell for the lion.
The doe wanted to please the lion.
She offered him a taste.
So he tasted.
But the lion couldn't control his hunger.
He tore at her flesh.
Wounding the deer.
The green grass turned red.
The sky grew dark.
When he had enough, he got up.
He looked at her.
He growled, he hissed, he walked away.
He wanted no blame for his own doing.
The doe nursed her wounds.
And the water turned red.
She grew strong again.
Washed clean by the stream.
The grass green again.
The sky blue.
But her scars remained.
The silken fur turned ragged.
The doe had a friend.
One with much shinier fur.
One more beautiful than she had been.
One that was unable to stand on her own.
Her friend was weak.
Weary from running.
She also did not know of lions.
The doe told her of the lion.
Showed her the scars.
Her friend saw, and hated the lion.
Or so she said.
The sky grew dark again.
The lion came back.
His mane with deep red in it.
His teeth bloodstained.
The doe was wary.
The doe knew he was flesh-hungry.
Her scars ached.
And she knew.
Her friend was in danger.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
I want to descent the well,
I want to climb the walls of Granada,
To gaze at the heart graved
By the dark stylus of waters.
The wounded child moaned
With a crown of frost.
Ponds, cisterns and fountains
Raised their swords in the air.
Ay what fury of love, what a wounding edge,
what nocturnal murmurs, what white deaths!
What deserts of light went destroying
the sand-dunes of dawn!
The child was alone
Wth the sleeping town in his throat.
A fountain that rises from dream
guarded him from thirsts of seaweed.
The child and his agony face to face,
Were two green entangled showers.
The child stretched on the ground
his agony bent on itself.
I want to descent the well,
I want to die my death by mouthfuls,
I want to fill my heart with moss,
To see the one wounded by water.
2.5k
Sweet words are nothing.
Words so empty, and fruitless.
No "sweetheart" will fix it.
How can your words still hurt me?
After all, you deserted me.
Time and, time again.
Do you feel like a man?
With my clothes tossed in trash bags.
When you're tossing me out, like the garbage you never throw out.
Do you feel like the man?
When you scream my worthless life lies in your hands.
Wrecking every defense I have put up.
How dare you wonder why I'm so messed up?
Jumping at every shout.
The shivers when I greet authority.
The name calling never gets old.
The words ring in my head like a catchy song.
The shouts echo in my brain.
You wanted to break me.
Wounding me so emotionally.
Scarring me like a ghost haunting me.
Don't try and play daddy.
Now that I have disappointed you.
You're too late.
Remember when you told me?
How you hoped I ended up in a wooden crate.
That's the night you really left me.
Do you feel like the man now?
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC
War of the worlds,
men bartering money
Dollar bills left abandoned,
blown to smithereens
Battling dusts of torment,
acceptance of surrender
Waging a money war,
business men flee
In the shadows rises,
a fallen angel
Akin to a phoenix,
from the ashes
She symbolizes a renewal,
dying in fires
Sparks burning a nest,
immortality supplying coffins
Diabolical legacies of past,
bow & arrow
Punctured wounding broken heart,
wings disallow flight
Stumbling a splintered hip,
reborn a chance
Of independent determined autonomy,
la Cuesta Encantada
Fallen at the gates,
an enchanted hill
San Simeon seeking redemption,
death awaits her
Carrying body & soul,
Santa María Maggiore
Of Roman baroque temples,
small cascading pools
Death releases her body,
the Neptune pool
She floats without dissension,
sinking in grace
In all her glory,
Hearst Castle will
Entomb body & soul,
memories of her
release release release
Absolution.
© Sia Jane
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
and if you are still the way you have always been, you're the lucky ones because most of us have taken ourselves apart down to the very molecules we are made up of and rearranged them to someone else's liking
and if you are still happy then you're the lucky ones, because most of us are so depressed we are willing to lather our stomachs in alcohol and burn our throats with smoke for fun, or to forget that person who made us feel like we were sitting in a haystack of needles, stabbing and wounding every inch of our skin
and if you still strive for your highest hopes and dreams, then you're the luckiest ones, because most of us settle for less, and only climb the ladder until we think we have reached the top
and if you're in love, you really are the luckiest of all, because we are all mostly bitter over those we have lost, thinking we are unable to find someone that will bring us the same happiness that the other person used to bring
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
Harbour lights beckoning
Like saintly haloed will-o-wisps
Annointing ocean mists
Jaded haunting memories
Come surging down with tidal force
And flood all other thoughts:
*"Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
And I love her more than thee"*
How oft' those words have plagued me,
How many moons have traced the sky
To fall from high
Reborn to die
And all in vain to answer why
The sea could never save me?
Weary sea-legs greet the dock,
Where once they brought in stoic stance
An end to fair romance
Your eyes were filled with sadness,
Beacons born of hope and kindness
Blinded by my blindness:
*"Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
And I love her more than thee"*
Stumbling blind from shore to lea,
From tavern, inn and hotel bar,
I search afar
Of ev'ry tar
To ask of all oh where you are
But nowhere can I find thee?
A young man needs adventure,
Yet all I learned from years at sea
Was all I missed of thee
Has time unwound the wounding
Of hasty words once said with zest
With pride and puffed-out chest:
*"Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
And I love her more than thee"*
With all hope driven from me,
I watched a sailor paint a tale
To taint me pale
As he regailed
Of maiden fair and love that failed
And torment that befell thee
Panic wove itself a wreath
Around my heart and pulling tight
It dragged me through the night
From town to shore I stumbled
And there upon the jagged rocks
Espied your ebon locks:
*"Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
And I love her more than thee"*
The beauty wrought within thee,
Noble grace and elegant flair
My maiden fair
Beyond compare
With ***** and seaweed in your hair,
What tragedy befell thee?
Translucent as the water,
You turn with sightless eyes to see
And see but thought of me
The sadness and betrayal
Takes harbour in your haunting face
Now anchored in this place:
*"Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
And I love her more than thee"*
Through years that passed unkindly,
For all my sins of jealous pride
The truth I hide
From thee inside,
My heart and soul with thee reside
And I have always loved thee
The sea I loved has taken
The destined time we had to share
And thee in thy despair
Oh love my love forgive me,
Upon the sea I held so dear
To you alone I swear:
*Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
But my heart belonged to thee*
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 4:08 AM UTC
In straps, of wire saplings,
Becomes one wild rose.
Alone in the dawn,
A solitary crow knows
That this is beauty,
Greater than his own
Shiny black robe.
Impossibly regal
Red as a scarlet wail,
A siren, amongst all
The greens and yellows
Of a meadow, of the entire
World, is the rose, above those,
Especially the bleak, envious
Crow, latched to a branch
As scaly and gnarled as his soul,
Blacker than eternal night,
Beside the shining light
Of the rightly charmed
Wild rose,
Alone.
Sorry is the crow—
Most of all unmatched, strikingly
To long flame of chalk faced moon,
Rides in airs, misbegotten, makes
Desolate cries, of wounding caws,
Self inflicted, so, somehow seems
Unalive, tarred, undead as smoke,
His fettered, black, unfeathering
Eyes. Not like the blooming spark
And flash of the stunning, runner,
Unbeaten, indomidible, shocking,
Wild rose, unmired by bramble,
Wood nor motley thorn of bush,
A star of life, razor cut, blistering,
Free, this spirited, ****** heart,
Set, a rage, on jagged leaf.
In tangled straps of green wire saplings,
A Rose is even more a rose, next to crow.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
Knocking on my door: Charlie Calgary is here!
His clothes in tatters, upper lip bleeding.
With tenderness my mother welcomes him. He looks
at me knowingly, pretending to tear.
Trickery! Always bluffing till they bring
Something free. He's among the youngest crooks.
She gives him dinner and one of my toys.
"Count your blessings", she counsels me. I frown,
flip Charlie the bird, get sent to my room.
This is the same game he often employs.
Later on, mother's in her evening gown,
Charlie's gone. I sweep the porch with a broom.
The day finishes. It's dark. Quite quickly
the starlight shows --- walking off carelessly, save
knowledge of wounding and cruel, fleeting thought ---
that sadistic boy Charlie Calgary,
whom my misled, well-meaning mother gave
stuffed-chicken dinners, new toys that she'd bought.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 2:06 AM UTC
This little vault, this narrow room,
Of Love and Beauty is the tomb;
The dawning beam, that ‘gan to clear
Our clouded sky, lies darken’d here,
For ever set to us: by Death
Sent to enflame the World Beneath.
’Twas but a bud, yet did contain
More sweetness than shall spring again;
A budding Star, that might have grown
Into a Sun when it had blown.
This hopeful Beauty did create
New life in Love’s declining state;
But now his empire ends, and we
From fire and wounding darts are free;
His brand, his bow, let no man fear:
The flames, the arrows, all lie here.
2k
Depression has made a home in my bones
it curls up inside my rib cage
wounding itself around my heart
This body is a city that used to shine so bright.
Gold and silver dust glowed,
two elements that usually don't
go together blended harmoniously,
you could hear a symphony in your ear.
It was the core.
Now the city is empty,
except for the few stragglers that are trying
to fix it up to its former glory.
It is a lost cause, but they do not yet know
that the bones are decaying,
withering away.
The heart is beating
but it's bleeding.
Black blood that stains this ugly city.
It's all deteriorating.
Soon it will be transparent.
Then it would be gone
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
.
In straps, of wire saplings,
Becomes one wild rose.
Alone in the dawn,
A solitary crow knows
That this is beauty,
Greater than his own
Shiny black robe.
Impossibly regal
Red as a scarlet wail,
A siren, amongst all
The greens and yellows
Of a meadow, of the entire
World, is the rose, above those,
Especially the bleak, envious
Crow, latched to a branch
As scaly and gnarled as his soul,
Blacker than eternal night,
Beside the shining light
Of the rightly charmed
Wild rose,
Alone.
Sorry is the crow—
Most of all unmatched, strikingly
To long flame of chalk faced moon,
Rides in airs, misbegotten, makes
Desolate cries, of wounding caws,
Self inflicted, so, somehow seems
Unalive, tarred, undead as smoke,
His fettered, black, unfeathering
Eyes. Not like the blooming spark
And flash of the stunning, runner,
Unbeaten, indomidible, shocking,
Wild rose, unmired by bramble,
Wood nor motley thorn of bush,
A star of life, razor cut, blistering,
Free, this spirited, ****** heart,
Set, a rage, on jagged leaf.
In tangled straps of green wire saplings,
A Rose is even more a rose, next to crow.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC