Poetry
Poetry
Black ink bled water,
A dried-up river of words,
A brilliant thought lost.
Pitter, patter, run
Stifled cries lost in the tongues
Of old, worn-out souls.
Black ink bled water,
A dried-up river of words,
A brilliant thought lost.
Pitter, patter, run
Stifled cries lost in the tongues
Of old, worn-out souls.