The battlefield is covered in rose petals,
soft cries drifting through the air.
Sometimes I lift my head to the breeze of death,
and wonder if you're standing there.
A figure hooded in doom,
a phenomenon we're all supposed to fear.
They call him the inevitable,
and they can never seem him drawing near.
And I know it's not yet my time,
but I still see the shadows lurking so close.
Trying to claim my mind,
as I tread among this field of withered roses.
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Words to My Demons | Poetry ✔️
Poetry❝she was simple, an angel born without wings. yet she was special, an enchanting song her lost soul sings. ❞ A dark and deep poetry collection of every little thing that makes us both unique and insane. ~ Highest ranking in Poetry: #7 ~ 1st Place in...