xi. TIME EVENTUALLY LEAVES YOUR GRIP.
we are nothing more than lit matches burning to ashes
that will only be brushed away by the whistle of the wind
and we will crash into the bark of trees that cry for
everything we had.
YOU ARE READING
on this day.
Poesíaxvii, april. (ii). these words speak louder than i ever will. © playlist poetry h.r. : #55
