The trivial little things left in your wake
Are beloved terminally infected limbs
It is not the firing squad
But the blindfold that makes us tense
Loss of perfection leaves no cause
To persist in searching
Leaving me longing for the day
That finally smothers all hope
Are beloved terminally infected limbs
It is not the firing squad
But the blindfold that makes us tense
Loss of perfection leaves no cause
To persist in searching
Leaving me longing for the day
That finally smothers all hope
Comments (0)
The minimum comment length is 50 characters.
Information
Users of Guests are not allowed to comment this publication.
There are no comments yet. You can be the first!