There's a certain sort of,
beauty,
in the slow,
d
e
c
a
y,
to whither,
and to peel,
until it fades,
a
w
a
y,
to become not,
but memory,
beacon of a better,
t
i
m
e,
the song,
and dance,
as shaped by,
c
h
a
n
c
e,
that will never,
ever,
be r e p e a t e d.
YOU ARE READING
The Poetry Of Everything
PoetryPoetry to sooth the soul, poetry to stir the mind, poetry to wake the monsters, poetry to mark our lives.
