by E.P.Robles04 Feb 2020
i return to the wild horses within my head. And to breath chrysanthemum skies while i openly weep holds no fanfare for fire. Fire can be emotionally cold as it consumes the Art with my blood. The veins of my Soul are yellow-green in color but my tongue is more.
And hear is a strong bastard
that kills me every evening as the Sun returns to tomorrow over There. Couples are beautiful as they harp upon each other's insecurities.
Lone wolves howl in pleasure and mostly disregard the silver-white light bulb in the sleeping sky.
Copyright © EPRobles