Were do you turn when all alone,
To face the window or the wall?
How close to edges do you stand,
What made you want to take the fall?
Does winter leave you with dry skin,
And your body paper thin?
Because you've cried out in the cold,
But no one cares you are too old.
You look at things far in the past and happy times they never last but these excuses don't help either they are the symptoms not the fever.
So were do you turn when all alone?
Do you create a helping hand?
Or simply wonder were you land?
YOU ARE READING
Words Of A Moth Drawn To Flame
PoesíaMoths come and go, This one is lost so it stays, It talks to candles but not the moon, Lost in it's own creation's maze.
