There is no solace in the attic,
There are foot prints of mice and spiders that call it their home.
I have known of gatherings that would turn the blood cold.
Come back home when the moon begins to wane, to unfold the letters where
horror stories are written.
Dearest old beast who hides in the invisible house.
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Many pieces torn into shreds, year by year. Fragile bits cracking gently but never mending. To the core that binded never was. We traveled... -
Forgive me for being on this fast track, This train keeps passing the stations I’m suppose to be getting off. A night here in paradise h...
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Time did not stand still It shaped its road for us to leave the past To rain soaked pavements, fallen leaves, high altitudes underneath the ...
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