Carefully the leaves of autumn sprinkle down the tinny sound of little dyings and skies sated of ruddy sunsets or roseate dawns roil ceaselessly in cobweb greys and turn to black for comfort. Only lovers see the fall a
Poetry Ptuesday: Wonder by Maya Angelou
A day drunk with the nectar of slowness weaves its way between the years to find itself at the flophouse of night to sleep and be seen no more. Will I be less dead because I wrote this poem