ENAMOUR

A lost enamour, A broadly lit claustrophobic core, It’s 2.a.m. or may be it’s already four. I search the supporting arms for succour. But all I find is the cold stony floor—- Cut into pieces with the tears I bore, The whites now sanguine with the bloody skin I tore; The woundes—all festered and sore;… Read More ENAMOUR