I plucked the dying flower and kissed it to the grave;
the way I looked at the grey sky;
when I returned his wrinkled smile;
letting my shoulders get wet of her tears;
as I walked in the woods but my feet touched the roots;
when I sang to the storm, lost in the music of the thunder;
I knew, within, I have light.
-She said to herself, kissed her own palms and then smiled.
YOU ARE READING
THE GIRL WHO SPOKE POETRY
PoesieThe thing about pain is, it makes you question.. what makes you human? ____________ **Not cliche, I repeat, Not cliche, WARNING, not cliche**
