Posted in Poetry


She is the picture of an empty road,
of the old city she used to lived in.
She is the good old songs,
ones that shed tears from her eyes,
wrenched her heart.
She is the voice of her mother,
calling her home after the long hours
she spent under the sun.
She is the nightmares she dreamed,
night after night after night.
She is the every being of her cell,
She is the conscience of her mind,
She is…

~ Nat ~

2 thoughts on “She

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