Marching through thin air.
I become old.
Unswervingly fragile.
Hovering outside,
on the perimiter,
sit the ghosts of real people.
Narrow tendrils of pain.
That sting again, again and again.
Marching through thin air.
I become old.
Unswervingly fragile.
Hovering outside,
on the perimiter,
sit the ghosts of real people.
Narrow tendrils of pain.
That sting again, again and again.
October 23rd, 2019 at 12:54 pm
Bravo