Walking on her conscience
Stumbling over petals that fall on breathless vessels.
Branches raptures by shade of grey.
Only darken by the injections of unknown weathers.
So she rest on white snow.
Only awaken with no portrait capturing her feathers.
We was created out of her lungs.
We was birth out of her womb.
We dwell within her ages.
Only to find collateral beauty with uncovered pages. By: MW Styner, Jr.