He's a fallen rising again,
he's an Angel back from the dead.
The demons call,
but he ignores.
He ignites his path,
when he walks.
The wings he bears,
are pure white.
They carry him,
to where he talks.
The light he holds,
prevents all fright.
But the mirror he sees
reflects no might.
YOU ARE READING
My heart for all to see
Thơ caMy mum past away April this year... Poetry to me is my outlet, my way of expressing myself, my way of coping with the intense feelings I endure at times. This is a side of me I don't show to those around me, and yet oddly enough I find myself postin...
