Stained fingertips belong to a rambling role, where the worlds masses are taping boarded to their faces, blinded.
My watchful eyes and my board strapped to my chest instead of my face,
It's a day's dark grey, an' the crows somber pecking,
Scratching at the people's messes in the downcast drizzle.
A slow search that provides no avails, and I am lonely all but only sad soft caws of crow sent out in scavengers hope.
YOU ARE READING
When Sanity is Lost
PoetryAnd I just couldn't stop, before I knew it I was picking the pen up again. My second book in process this is soon to begin editing once my last one is done. As always hope you enjoy and find my insta @these.are.true.feelings
