She was a lost soul.
Empty, broken, no where to go, no one to turn to.
A shell of the person she once was.
She had a broken heart
Shattered in pieces and scattered round the face of the earth.
She had a long forgotten faith.
Turned her back and swore never to come back.
For it is better to suffer in darkness than to turn back and see the light.
YOU ARE READING
The Dark Writings of Pleasant
Poesia"No lover leaves a rose garden without blood on their hand." A collection of dark thoughts. A collection of dark poems.
