Poem.
Preserved in salted wine
Few ears
A sinning tear
Hand resting
On the immaculate body
Hidden behind the stone altar
Between cold rays of the moon
Where only drunken insects
Dare to sink sharp nails
Into the cold wax.
Currently there are no comments related to "Tired Forehead". You have a special honor to be the first commenter. Thanks!
Welcome to Authspot, the spot for creative writing.
Read some stories and poems, and be sure to subscribe to our feed!
