Hear ye, hear hear ye.
I wish you black.
Until the fiery eyes are enough to be seen.
Until the coat turns into a robe, so sheen.
Until the bells are rung at the Sistine.
I wish you black.
Until the freckled pawn becomes a queen.
YOU ARE READING
The Good place
PoetryThis is a collection of all the poems I've written about everything I'm curious about and more. Literal pitstop is the pen name I write under on WordPress and Instagram.
