Think of all the roses,
That flow so ever gently through the breeze.
One is picked,
Left to wilt.
Laying softly upon the empty ground,
Its future awaits.
Looking upon this lonely creature,
The thought suddenly streams,
To reflect onto oneself.
YOU ARE READING
Atelophobia
PoesíaA dark essence surrounds the soul. Here, she comes to release her subconscious thoughts into written words.
