• lucine 11w


    Grief is the thing with feathers,
    It's a fascinating fiend;
    Flying with the wind,
    Daring the weathers.
    Striking those alive,
    It preys on the weak;
    Through silent sob and shriek,
    Mourning the one who couldn't survive.
    One leaves behind many to wail,
    Others pass away in vain;
    Grief brings out the pain,
    Then sets away to sail.