When all there's left is
hope;
no heat, nor empty
cold;
shall I raise my
palms
to beg for its
return;
or tie my hands
down
and pray to even
mourn?
YOU ARE READING
Poetry is a sense-blossoming flower that never wilts.
#collection
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#poetrycollection
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#selflove
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#wit
When all there's left is
hope;
no heat, nor empty
cold;
shall I raise my
palms
to beg for its
return;
or tie my hands
down
and pray to even
mourn?