I hand to you the world filled with us bereaved.
Thou shall not become a forlorn figure of grief
YOU ARE READING
every nook and cranny inside the mind of a morose weed
Poetrya chain of uneasy events capsuled in secret proses * words in the petals of a dead flower, pick each single one of them and tell my story
VI.
I hand to you the world filled with us bereaved.
Thou shall not become a forlorn figure of grief
