She was a wistful, mournful thing.
A beseeching snarl of thorns, a contrast image, a model of female rage and life aches. It was inflexible, a grim hanging, a cramp that quivered and fluttered.
How much is she willing to give to stop the maunders?
The blank slates?
YOU ARE READING
Screaming Into The Void
Poetry#1 in poetry :) #1 in free verse :) Have you ever felt like it was the end? Like today was just a bad day? That no matter how many times you believe that something can happen that it just might not? That no one gives a damn at all? That all you do...
