The Soul selects her own Society — Then — shuts the Door — To her divine Majority — Present no more — Unmoved — she notes the Chariots — pausing —
By Imperfectly Perfect Poetry:)3 years ago in Poets
Remorseful Fire Destruction, smoke-filled rooms, ashy essentials burnt to flames. Words like those are used for me daily.
By Imperfectly Perfect Poetry:)4 years ago in Poets
