Our life ends in a pit,
Once our heart stops pumping the blood,
Once our heart stops beating forever.
Soon enough we're property of mother nature,
And it rips everything from our skeleton and lets it breathe.
Over time, our bones are going to absorb our stories, waiting to be told.
Sometimes our bones are going to discovered after
Decades or years,
Months or weeks, but once they do,
They are going to tell the stories,
We could never tell.
YOU ARE READING
The lost art of Words.
Poetry"But none of these options were in my story, A story which dried up my heart from hope" What does it take to live with a vision full of words. what is it like to be knotted up in your own dreams? POETRY ALERT!!
