waisehell
The poet is sleeping and darkness has painted our hearts/ No angels, no traces, no waste, none of us/ Can be as he was the day we were born/ We look just like flowers while our wings have been torn.
waisehell
The poet is sleeping and darkness has painted our hearts/ No angels, no traces, no waste, none of us/ Can be as he was the day we were born/ We look just like flowers while our wings have been torn.
