I don't feel.
I hear cold wind,
drops hitting me.
I could fly away
anytime,
but I still hang
from that little petiole.
I reach for that last hope,
I can't give up.
I'm shaking at the freezing air hitting me;
I should just let go.
YOU ARE READING
Trash of the Soul
Poetryversi liberi perché i sentimenti non si ordinano e foto di piccioni che vedo per la strada, solitamente morti.
