Awake and alone in the cold hours of darkness, my mind hits its peak, so often I forget, too much I remember. For days are not days unless I wait for December. Where the coolness does not reside in my lungs only, but outside where birds chirp slowly. Their beaks breaking with the branches that fall to their death, and the grass no longer sways for it is too still, likewise my mind is racing against its own will. And though I am far too gone for their fiery words, those who melt the ice, I still sit alone in my room, thinking, how company would be nice.
Go check out Monocroms book "The Night Loom"
https://my.w.tt/ODzB9nUlDZ !! ❤️😋
YOU ARE READING
Every Tear
PoésieStaring at these blank pages my mind is empty, the words won't bleed from my fingertips, for they only know my eyes.
