It's raining outside.
Inside - a glass jar full of cream,
a book in which the knight saves the princess from a dragon,
a windowsill seat to sit on.
The princess reading the book pretends it's a throne.
In the real world, the princess doesn't need saving.
And the knight doesn't care.
She takes the dragon as a pet.
That night, the rain cried instead of them.
YOU ARE READING
Prismatic Memories
Poetry"i. they tell me they cannot comprehend art. where art is, whispers reside. ii. i tell them that the only art i need are the words that bleed onto paper. iii. they tell me it doesn't work that way. there are compromises for art. sports. scie...
