Lost are its stars, it weeps and wails, wishing to have a drunkards thought.
The spicy sweetness of carnations are lost, only rust remains.
The crimson begins to flow null as the stone drinks its hearty fill.
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Author:
CarnationsCaretaker (
Offline) - Published: August 28th, 2024 04:09
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 20
- Users favorite of this poem: Qurrathul Ain
Offline)
Comments1
Images pregnant with meaning that bleeds through walls of words
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