A busy street and all I see
Is faces recognized but cannot be
Clinking glasses and all I see
Is a little mirror glued to me
What do you see
When you look upon me?
A faceless mask of empathy
A shell to break and make and take
And fake the deepest parts of we
An empty road and all I see
Is life, love, and blissful me
YOU ARE READING
March of the Flowers
PoetryOne by one, we march. We march. Our branches tired. Our leaves are wearied. March of the Flowers is a collection of poetry
