A tender glass of pale grass hues rest on my hand, It’s ice like stars.
I felt its bittersweet soul on my lips as the white flower flows.
Melancholic tears fill the lost glass while that aubade echoes.
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Author:
CarnationsCaretaker (
Offline) - Published: August 26th, 2024 05:27
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: redenanimous
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Comments1
I read this poem three times and it still echoes
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