the more i think i grow,
the less i seem to know
i stretch from the ground
as though i were a rose
emerging from the concrete
these thoughts sprout
into blooming trees
the branches are twisted
and crooked, and within the trunk
there is a marking designating two
souls intertwined
(the z is weathered away
so merely the o remains)
the more i think i grow,
the less i seem to know
YOU ARE READING
this fantastical world is too surreal (poetry #5)
Poetry"a rustle crackles underneath jackboots crossbow tight in hand she breathes one final breath before he pulls the trigger" you know the drill
