Holding onto inner markings of music,
not taking off any particles of it.
Icicles forming within as a coldness
begins to fill me with a fear of the
unknown walking into my mind.
Straddling the rooftops, looking down,
watching everything melt before my eyes.
Writing it all in the snow of my senior
winter.
(9: 26 p.m. - 10/11/13)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thats great.um.......good writes sha.I also invite you to read and comment on my writes