Mold
- Tomásio
- Feb 22, 2020
- 1 min read
Updated: Feb 27, 2020
Anxiety fills the air and porous planks of wood
between what i want and what i get lies what i think may be or should
could I? or could i not, embark on tales, made pure of gold
beneath my lungs, beneath my heart lies smoldering embers, mold.
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