Irony taints my lips of verses,
it makes it worthy of dreadful curses-
for of bittersweet poems of history's quill,
what is my shattered glass against their window sill?
My tongue of poems - it barely converses,
my sallow song of ash it then submerses-
below the golden throne of art and pretty bliss,
what is my blurred blear against their morning thrill?
YOU ARE READING
ꨄ 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑ꨄ
PoetryLife and Death; Joy and Sorrow. They're just two wings to the same body.
