The roads we traverse are sore overgrown,
Weaving through vines that grasp with sharp thorns.
They sting and they swipe with their convulsive pains,
Wishing to share what they brandish with disdain.
Their ludicrous laughter rings through our bare feet,
Staining our hearts with hope in defeat.
Derisive, it seems, how we should look upon them
But look closer you'll see, they sound the same hymn.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry of Alice Calbri
ŞiirThis is just a book of random poems that I write! (And I might post some on here that my friends have written as well.) Some of them talking about inspirational matters, others touching on details about some things that you might relate to, and othe...
