The sense of danger must dissapear.
The worried efforts not mattering.
Like the way time wrinkles up in a heap.
As though the way of rose peddles shriveling up.
Must i go on?
Or shall i stay?
It is not my decision to make.
So I'll be gone by morning.
YOU ARE READING
My Life, My Thoughts
PoetryJust a bunch of songs and poems I've written. Do not steal them. They were all written by me.
