Copyright, Turtle

These tears have grown old,
Her Lips were pure
And a mother’s love was mine
Age molds innocence,
Into frameless portraits;
So abstract, so I wish you luck…

These tears have grown mold,
Each forgotten and obtuse
Surrounding me in led
Destroying me and my god

These tears have grown frigid,
Greeting black december psalm;
It’s not a choice but i just can’t…
Descend; gallop so swiftly the cold
Thus keeping you nearest to mine
Frozen, forever beautiful,
Forever lost within my tears.


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