From dust was grown
Your wretched heart
It burned and cussed
And killed and brewed
A hatred for your injured prude
Don't come for me
In an ugly battle
For it is not I you hate
But the mirror above
That points down in the direction
We do not speak of.
YOU ARE READING
Transcending Poetry
PoetryA collection of original poetry and photography. Follow @Behr.Tracks on instagram for more photography!
