The Sky is low — the Clouds are mean. A Travelling Flake of Snow Across a Barn or through a Rut Debates if it will
Category: Reading
Do they matter?—those dreams from the pit?… You can drink and forget and be glad, And people won’t say that you’re mad; For they’ll know
A tall one I know at the end of a hallway broods in shadows and is watching booze eat out the insides of the man
“Why do You thus devise Evil against her?” “For that She is beautiful, delicate; Therefore.”
“Hope” is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— And sings the tune without the words— And never stops—at all—