Sometimes the psyches fly on their own, be careful not to step on them. Thread softly so your feet don't get cut by the glass. The river flows gently on their veins, but their screams echo through your head. These are the flowers for the beauty in death.
the lips of the doll
The lips that bleed words of sweet irony, those that speak honest thruths that are always incomplete, those who never dare speak more than the more they should...
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario