There is a plant Inside.
It s very weak and tiny.
It makes a try To grow
In dry and empty womb.
No reason to abide
The pain increasing fast.
More space there is disturbed
More fear is absorbed.
The only way to stop
This process of creation
Just tear a root at once
Deprive it of a chance
To smell like rare herb
On frigid poor soil.
Where none of wight remains,
In perfect deathly place.
Herb
© Copyright: Екатерина Пашук Юниор, 2017
Свидетельство о публикации №117031901226
Свидетельство о публикации №117031901226
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