Ann Writing

The room is cold as day old prey, its silence, loud with innuendo. ceaseless ticking of the clock urge time to a cresc..

Rearranging the pages of sights I have seen, the child of my past has awakened in me. She carries a journal, my name on the cover. Addic..

Speak clearly, so there be no doubt, for I have lost the knack of guile. Have been mistaken oh! so often turned away, when I shou..