"Untitled"
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Our love is on its way to bud, almost like a primrose perennial; A type of vernal freshness— A love that seems to want to be preserved.
A flowering to a deflowering—
Neither to be mistaken as wrong.
A beginning where nothing is forgotten and where it's all postponed.
The seedtime—
The hope for less of a waning.
We should look for the answers in the wind and to give the moon a break.
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YOU ARE READING
Mania
PoetryA collection of poetry. For those with a mind like mine; uncontrollably bitter and sweet. ❤️🩹
