Art is never finished, only abandoned.
A mangled bird laying amongst the sheets of frost covered autumn leaves to her last breath she clings, listening, and counting the beats of her immortal heart, tears of black sliding over her cheeks, she, a disconsolate work of art
By Hannah Moon5 years ago in Poets
Under our beds, or just in our heads The memories and thoughts have changed us instead For the ones that we fear have come so near
