I MORN MY MELANCHOLY. vibrant oasis's become dead seas. euphoria is a long forgotten dream. centuries have vanished since i last weeped. at this point i'd be grateful to bleed. to be devoured by ruthless grief. and yet numbness doesn't come. this is far worse. this is the death of winter but not the blooming of spring. this is nameless. THIS IS NOTHING.
——Tragically yours, Abedabun.
YOU ARE READING
Єтєяиαℓ Мσσиℓιgнт
PoetryGirls like me don't sleep. After all we're weaved of dreams.
