Can we find joy here? Our world rife with pain and fear. I’ll think of you dear.
By Claire Gilliland2 months ago in Poets
Your mother gifted me a candle in a gold jar. The wax smells like soap that I cannot afford. A warm glow flickers through the marble glass when lit.
By Claire Gilliland3 months ago in Poets
I should have bit my tongue. Maybe then things would have stayed the same. Should have locked up my desires, taken them to the grave.
