The lamps strand the shadows of peace
The mist lights up our sun
Our morose innocence fascinates the unknown gratitude
when the rosewood petal quantifies the sheer breath
Under the stagnant solitude , where our virtuous sins die
The immortal massacre takes us in its benefit
And we, the martyrs of glory , take away in our blood,
The someone of agony, the eternal.
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NOT FLAWLESS ENOUGH
PoesíaNone of us are actually flawless, How much ever we try to make ourselves believe we are perfect, we are amazing.. we'll still be carrying the scars of our own lives and the glories of someone else's But we still try to be flawless, hiding all the m...
