dead trees
empty heart
air is cold
a face like art
-a.h.
YOU ARE READING
whirring | 1
Poetry❝Hope is the thing with feathers that perches into the soul - and sings tunes without words - and never stops at all.❞ [welcome to whirring act one. this is the first installment of my personal poetry. these writings are so near and dear to my heart...
empty heart
dead trees
empty heart
air is cold
a face like art
-a.h.
