Fragments of glasses
in the empty room
of the inarticulate whispers,
bleed
our limits,
fill
with sores
the caress of our soul.
Limits
written byDimitris P. Kraniotis
© Dimitris P. Kraniotis
Fragments of glasses
in the empty room
of the inarticulate whispers,
bleed
our limits,
fill
with sores
the caress of our soul.
© Dimitris P. Kraniotis