The Aged ManA Poem by Ray' QuintasThe cracks of his skin are only his history- Crystals hang off every crooked finger Morning air runs threw his hair- Into hers She breathes him in- everyday it is him who fills her lungs Clean © 2016 Ray' Quintas |
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Added on June 7, 2016 Last Updated on June 7, 2016 AuthorRay' QuintasMilwaukee, WIAbout"Let the light of your soul transcribe itself onto the pages of eternity" more..Writing
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