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 23, 2019
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