Saturday, July 7, 2007
I held her hand and walked her to her waiting chariot the one that would steal her in the night from my love but her grip was fierce fear was a well of tears that echoed goodbye forever so like a camera she caught me in her lens snapping photographs to create postcards her porcelain skin red and... Sign in to see full entry.
posted by MiaElla at 11:33 AM Comments (4) (permalink)
About this Blog
Warm, Organic Poetry