driven by instinct slave to the wirings of primitive mind wrinkled and folded, sensitive to the bellows of fight or flight
By Sara9b5 years ago in Poets
The dreaded days are near with every thrum of blood the chasm, is drawing nigh. It looms in the distance
I am the colour of hope, a melting snow, and untarnished bar of soap. I am the colour of bright eyes at the uttering of good news,
