"No one knows where the edge of the knife is,
and no one knows what intelligent life is."
Morning dawns. No longer is she endless, empty; no longer does she blanket those who rest their souls below. Wave after wave, his warmth seeps
By Sara Wynn4 years ago in Poets
I am so tired. I just want to lay here and wither to become one again with, to disappear back into the familiar hearth.
Made up of grass and cracks in the concrete, clinging to the edge of life, paper thin chained to lovely bones for infinity,
One day I will have died, a green grass blanket where my body lies a stone to mark a name on my short life I’ll be missing out on sunlight,
Searching through my dreams at night, all eyes are on me- not a soul in sight, hiding indefinitely. The moon is far away, but moves the seven seas,
A thousand melodies flock to her hair with sharp talons sinking into grey flesh and sharp voices cutting through autumn air
Clover, green and clever, lucky, blending; you are precious, one of many, spritely; sought by greedy gamblers, meant for spending--
