Ghosts
Going nowhere; a voyager of circles, succeeds
Hoing my own garden; a harvest, full of weeds
Ostracized; for concerning myself, of others' needs
So; is this the flavor of my ink, when it bleeds?
Thrilled by my emotions; they are my poetic creeds
Spectors, are now plowing; to plant their own seeds
Copyright © Anonomus Scorpio | Year Posted 2023
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