• feral1 11w

    Every fear resigned.
    The world gathers more, on you.
    There is never much to give.
    Just a cup of glances over filling.
    In your throat a dying crow.
    Maintain composure till the fading breath.
    Only then can you know the love and torture patience brings.
    A waiting room for the damned.
    The numbers called.
    Never yours.
    ©feral