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HAIL TO THE MOUSE QUEENS, those silent drab things, with a strangeness of other worldly beings, like ethereal angels or celestial faeries,
rebellious cosmic energies, with melancholy souls like thunderstorms at sea, makers of wishes, daughters of Aphrodite
won't you tell me what it's like to be lost in reality, with nothing but lilac bandaids for knees bruised by tragedy, tell me what it's like to bleed oasis dreams and weep moonlit poetry, AND PROMISE ME, YOU WONT LET THIS COLD WORLD CLIP YOUR WINGS.
Sincerely, Abedabun
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YOU ARE READING
Єтєяиαℓ Мσσиℓιgнт
PoetryGirls like me don't sleep. After all we're weaved of dreams.
