Empty Days

Days running like an empty sheet of paper – uninked. An unlived hours of living – as dry as the desert.

Nothing to feel; not famished or parched.

This days when there’s no memory to remember.

Nothing but an empty well. A song without a tune – mute as this. 

Nothing but silence. 

The Poetess
The Poetess

Erratic. Playful. Poetic.

Articles: 93

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