A/N: Shamelessly alluding to Wilde in my works at this point. Enjoy.
****
The nightingale sang to the rose
in the name of love —
when it got too close
the rose's thorn pierced its breast,
its melody became its last note;
it bled out and fell to the ground.
Sitting on a branch
at the very top of a tree
is a lovely notion,
sometimes.
Power, freedom in the daylight.
Suffocation, isolation in the night.
The world forgets, in the night.
YOU ARE READING
The Second Time
Поэзия☾ This is a book of drafts of dorky, hopeless poems, poem-ish works, and rants that usually make no sense whatsoever. I hope you enjoy reading them just as much as I enjoy writing them. ☽ Copyright © 2015 by something1d, all rights reserved. Poetry...
