Crimson blood freely drips from the thorns in my wrist. Shards from every rose scented word spoken out loud by the light. The dark seem warmer every second I fall into it hold. I rather spend what blood is left on trying to survive , for another rose scented word might be the last
Dry grass whistles , catching the teasing wind in their strands , the brown tendrils dancing in enchanting ways . You can hear the ancient music that has echoed the lands for eternity .
That’s true, a lot of people don’t stop to hear the music of the natural world.
Thanks … It was asking me to write it
Harried wings beat untimely as blood drips down on the gardens of the entitled , pulling peace from the serene palaces of the gifted and throwing them into war
Good stuff Sky, keep 'em coming! You done any work to length, like kept any characters through several stories?
Most of my writing is poetry like … I write very few stories