The clock ticked liquidated.
Souls are melting, as hell is expected.
The living mourning thy restless soul,
Clueless of its anger, hate is born.
Promises should define one's trustworthiness.
A pact too loud to act to dismiss.
Yet people treat it like a glass of wine.
Broken through sharp words, stepped on like a landmine.
YOU ARE READING
The Whispering Quills
PoetryThis collection delves into the chambers of memory, where love and loss echo in hushed whispers. It's not just a book of poems; it's an intimate journey through the human heart, inviting you to confront your own depths and find solace in shared expe...
