Peculiar sorrow, returns and destroys.
A temptation rather tingling, in the back of ones head, the sobs of the crow lay to rest as the dead.
The deceased rise, as the time is told, the air is frigid, yet hardly cold.
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Presently fourteen, attempting to comprehend this vast world, which is far too small at the moment.
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Internally ostentatious, externally mute.
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Physics, Philosophy, Literature
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Preludic
Feb 01, 2018 10:07PM
I suppose that this is a minuscule revival.The craving of poetry was persistently knocking, thus, I am here.For now, at the very least.View all Conversations