Between wolf and
vampire, you burn the
marrow of moon.
Carnivore. You
define the perfect surrender.
No peace as yet.
My father talks to
my son in sleep, to wear
an old hawthorn crown.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: June 19th, 2023 21:17
- Category: Nature
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: James Michael
Offline)
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