Little Birdie > Writing | WritersCafe.org | The Online Writing Community

Ruins are a small word to describe what he left of me.

She conducted silence.

Fingers deep in your soul.

You can't cry it out.

She had paper-thin hands. He had heavyweight eyes.

I tell them I'm scared of dying.

Living each day anew through every kaleidoscope hope.

I could be three times the charm.

There will be dreams plucked like roses from night gardens.

Oh, but those nightly creatures have long been my friends.