Our dry whispers lost in grey dusk, no confinement for vibrations to rattle, free to evaporate into winds of time. Scents of strong lilac and springs musk, her purple flowers amongst cattle, scattered along grass green as lime. Your scarecrows heart filled with wheat and husk as morn prepares for its perpetual battle with fickle souls like mine. Our laughter puttering with a tsk-tsk and a nonsensical babble beyond the wrath of vine.
Posted on: Mon, 29 Jul 2013 13:43:26 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015