Morning waits, grey-blue.
Mourning dove, through my window,
Weeps a sleepless tune.
How does it work?
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.
More stories from Morgana and writers in Poets and other communities.
Forehead vein wakens Pulsing beacon of male rage Here we go again
By Morgana3 years ago in Poets
*** I have come to the realization that hesitation serves me like a switchblade to the jugular proving to be fantastically skilled at creating beautifully poetic censorship
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden3 days ago in Poets
These Years The heart has walked through too much confusion, felt too much sorrow. Love has wandered through too many longings, drifted too many times.
By Chen Niao 7 days ago in Poets
When I was just a lad, my parents told me that we were going to see the ocean. I was not a clever lad. I thought they meant that the ocean is someone, whom you could pay a visit if you liked.
By D. J. Reddall6 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.