her pulse is a tumbleweed, lost to the desert
sand dunes of asymmetrcal nostalgia
oasis with no trace of esse
hemotoxic rattlesnakes hiss
at her wondering feet
calling to her demise or a moment to breathe
YOU ARE READING
protea
Poetry"her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high." a flower, protea an admirer a past of pain a garden of rehabilitation a love soil deep Come see their journey
