It is an ever-breaking rose window.
It only exists as the clock smashes into pieces before me.
No matter how beautiful it is. It cracks as I admire it.
And I am aware of it. That's what sickens me.
The road to the future is blanketed by broken glass.
My feet bleed as I walk.
YOU ARE READING
Fading Echoes
PoetryThese are not poems. This is not a story. This is my soul poured into words. That voice you hear in your head as you read this, that's me. I don't know where I am, but I'm talking to you. Isn't that a miracle? You're hearing the fading echoes of wha...
