The garden is dead. And so will you if you keep picking those dead flowers.
Don't take from a dead garden.
Because becoming apart of
The dead garden wasn't the plan.
The rivers run red in Babylon.
Moths of light
Shadows of darkness
Will the beast feed
Or
Will the beast starve
Storms of choas
A moon for the wolves
A sun for the flowers
We love to die, as time is ticking.
We watch and observe
To learn and to grow.
But with every choice you make has a price to pay.
But with your eyes to see
Is just half to what is there.
~
Grey
YOU ARE READING
colour.
Non-FictionThe secrets of dark poetry, the dark side of the truth writen in beauty.
