For the bliss that my hands
has never reached,
Between your sweetest affection
and paranoia.
Thousands of leaves
may fall from a bough,
Both of our wretched souls
will still live in dementia.
YOU ARE READING
| march and phantom.
PoetryHe is the corpse of my existential avenue, creeping towards a clandestine affair.
Delusions
For the bliss that my hands
has never reached,
Between your sweetest affection
and paranoia.
Thousands of leaves
may fall from a bough,
Both of our wretched souls
will still live in dementia.
