Burned scent,
into ashes of nothingness
As if brick of secrets no longer in memory
Abandoned not,
Unloading, no.
We are a stain, slowly fading in clothes of strangers
A transition of uncertainty,
In a city remains asleep
YOU ARE READING
Plague Prosaic
PoetrySimple things, doesn't have to be right, doesn't have to be wrong, it just have to be. A 'kind-of' a journal about everything ordinary inside a mind so chaotic. All Rights Reserved ©Lazidoura 2021
