Its existence defiled,
Only a potion remains
Scribbled in splattering ink
Dictating that which it holds
Spilling from within,
Soiling the spotless set yet again
Desired to chain it
Relentless pursuit of midnight’s qualms,
Kept it in place, never of its trail
Drenched in that soggy mound,
To which it once loathed
It turns the page—
ink still wet—
and writes again.
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Author:
tayne (
Offline) - Published: March 30th, 2026 18:54
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 2
Offline)
Comments1
This creates a mental picture that is hard to erase. Well done
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