Beware the falling scents of tear-stained, blood-curdled sky.
Today the human touch is a grenade twas once cuddly soft.
Screeches erupt from not far off, their source unbeknownst.
Tread softly, my chickens, for apprehension is in the air.
Tschüss,
Marta Frieda Hart
No comments:
Post a Comment