the guitar plays lonely on the background.
from the forest? not a sound, just the crackling fire in the middle of the circle, dancing along the melodies of the old councilman. free to move anywhere, the sound of the music and voices travels far, deep into the mountain, and the wind almost whistles when it passes near the ears of the people.
YOU ARE READING
high thoughts
Poetryjust some stuff i write when high (not particularly good and not exactly well written) TW: suicide and depression stuff
