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Passive [[WIP]]
In a land not too far away,
Where the fields are gray
They harvest their wheat
That withers every day
They don't breathe more than once
They don't blink more than twice,
Inorder to fulfil their wildest dreams
That never escape the realm of night
No one needs to bother,
Where sons bury fathers
Wish it was different,
But we all forgotten its our creation
Wish we could go on further,
But these cuffs lack a maker
I liked this
I liked this read..
Hi...haven't been on here much lately.
Hope all is well.
...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "