What is it
that bones are saying
so trapped, silenced
beneath the skin?
Let it wash off,
the flesh is a figment
of an imagination.
Bones know nothing
and everything.
You don't have to tell them.
They are made of whispers,
too afraid
to say anything aloud.
ESTÁ A LER
Teacup and other Torments
PoesiaTell me why you're alone -the wonderland is forever closed. This is for the hearts who never find their homes.
