437
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437
come back the line like eager sadness. a knife hollows them out. a thin skin of black letters.
437
under the cold of tears, she'll decay and be warm. the style is death; a white rose in a morphine dream, a joke to amuse life, goodbye into a snowstorm. while you shake the thoughts, memories of conversation.
437
i wear the wounds of my mother, in the tears she never shed. they bloom like ghostly flowers in the garden of the dead.
437
i wear these wounds their all in silence, but they hum a mournful tune. in the depths of my own darkness, beneath the unforgiving moon.
437
in the quiet of the evening when the moon begins to rise, i'm tracing all these hidden bruises in the corners of my eyes.
437
437
"what are you gonna do for the rest of your life?" try not to end it quickly i guess?
