Listen to the sounds of silence as the walls come tumbling down.
So we leave and so we go, Continue reading “It will.”
As dawn will shine its brightest fire upon those in its way, we raise our tools for food and folk upon another day. Continue reading “After the toil.”
They’re all but tattered rags or less, it is but feel or price which changes. The colors serve to distract the eye and the form declared always the new. Continue reading “The rags.”
So many whispers in a cycle of rage with hands to never come clean. It was to be but a squeal in the night, no fight, but a silence soon after. Continue reading “The happy widow.”