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Traumatic winds lull,
In highly tensioned room,
They choke your words,
To open your ears to sound of hell.
The tongue licks the dry mouth,
Your eyes plead for the sound to stop,
Yet the winds not pay a cent to you,
As your brain unsuccessfully tries to shut down.
YOU ARE READING
Journal of moods
PoetryButterflies don't dwell on a single flower like us humans who don't dwell on a single mood
