a dandelion sits atop
a garden of roses,
and only when the field
is no longer painted in red
will you pick me
but I'll be one with the wind
by then
and your field will be empty
weuneigh
YOU ARE READING
My Blood is My Ink | Poetry Book
PoetryA collection of all my woes and ruminations in poetry form
your last resort
a dandelion sits atop
a garden of roses,
and only when the field
is no longer painted in red
will you pick me
but I'll be one with the wind
by then
and your field will be empty
weuneigh
