Alone in a dream,
But not asleep.
The blind will see,
But not with sight.
The lame shall walk,
Without the use of feet.
And as on the bridge,
I look to the tower,
Which now crumbles hour by hour,
I waver on the brink,
Standing on the edge,
All seems possible,
Maybe I can fly...
Maybe...
I should...
try...
YOU ARE READING
Soft Curses of Angels - Volume 1 - A Fistful of Dust
PoesíaThe earliest part of my chronological anthology of bad poetry. Estimated age at time of writing 12-16. I both thank and apologise to any soul who takes the time to read these.
