He was the kind of art gallery where you'd find broken hearts instead of curious tourists, where you'd find the unsure instead of the wise and for the kings without kingdoms outside of their dreams instead of the rich with kingdoms in their pockets.
He was the kind of art gallery that played the same music that the broken songs her own heart wrote.
YOU ARE READING
The lioness
PoetryDon't we all overthink once in a while? I just like to write everything down until I can get my head out of my ass and get to writing real, legit novels. (which I'm actually working on.. Kind of)
