The embalming touch,
Of the light at the end,
Makes the misery fade,
The rocky edges,
That life bringeth forth,
doth not know,
The sores on my feet,
Soon shall make it fit and worth,
I shall slack not,
For a wry smile,
Shall nurse my troubled soul.
YOU ARE READING
THE BOY ON THE BRIDGE.
PoetryThe weakest ink harbors the strongest minds. A collection of thoughts that will blow your mind. Some emotions laced herein are quirky, any similarity to real characters is just a mere coincidence*
