Thursday, 17 October 2024

Freya

Is it me all alone, his turn now to bleed, turn off that useless phone, lay open the ghosts, from the gate they scream, don't bring them home , why wail in broken tones sat on bar stools seats, you never could throw stones, do you need a trombone, to accompany your creed, when your creation's done, gone gone, like your unruly needs, does it help moving on, with me as your pheromone, in this unlit scene, a cache of unread tomes, to polish my dreams ?

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