Photo by Daniele Colucci on Unsplash
Desolate; we are the anthesis
At the whim of our strangling mortality
Desolate, I’m floundering in inescapable
Anthesis; you are flowering
At the ripe red precipice, justice snapped in two like my vine
Greedy little guts that sank into devil dirt like a wormy bed.
About the Creator
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.