Brass turns to rust,
And dreams turn to dust,
And the stars in the sky are just dead celestial bodies.
The world's already been discovered,
The Sun and the Moon aren't lovers,
And the Man in the Moon doesn't have his own light.
Maybe the world lost its magic,
Or I've lost my soul.
Maybe the world's never been poetry,
Or maybe I'm just a little bit
Jaded.
-Autumn
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHireath: (n) A homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was. For the home I haven't yet returned to. ***************************** A book of poems and the occasional response to writing prompts. Or both. My es...
