30A Poem by winter;lyra
notes get old
my wits do not get any bolder I must hoist my pen and catapult these thoughts 30, from here on I start to die my sadness beckons into the material and expressions stagnate into wrinkles trickling bits of memory the steep curve evidently flattens 30, from here on I start to lie unlike before just in word now in both worlds when time denies the lux of reality and delights become formality 30, from here on I start to write closer to the paper entrusted to the strokes I nurture on the past and it pulses back the dreamer dies, the poet is born © 2022 winter;lyra
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Love Me Not
1986, Penny Herrera falls into the predatory clutches of Matt, an older man who has no other intention than to alter Pen
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Added on October 11, 2022 Last Updated on October 11, 2022 Author
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