Please, do
—as I did not.
The Glassless Hour shatters.
A hand withholds the sound of hush-thrown sands,
entranced, picked locks.
Inside these lies reside
enshrouded plots of fallen fruit.
The pit of rot becomes the swell, and soon
the shores of Time will rise,
washing away the salted sins of fallen kin,
belonging with Hell.
Four walls below an old space now left,
beginnings of a scenic fall,
a pillared stone, amass a rock atop.
It shows,
core tomb, which you praise—
a shelter-like shade.
–
cam. d. s
7:18 a.m
∆Remember Us∆ 