WAIT
On a stage where I don't know what to call myself,
hearing that confusing reason, my smile ended—
how could you define what was lost in translation?
Questions were asked with a dead-end destination.
Dropped a thousand steps without a pillow waiting,
as ink blotted on these pages, it's quite humbling.
Regrets after a message I suddenly felt—
rhyming phrases in my head, I'll write in silence.
YOU ARE READING
THE MUSE'S PAGES: dusk
PoetryThe other half of The Muse's Pages: dawn, a collection of self-written poetry
