by Ioana Moldovan
They say it gets better, but does it ever?
With no lights, i choose to fall.
With the sky ending
and the ground rising
the birds are singing no more.
The soul is searching in the broken reservoir for any sparkling lights.
But no lights, just bruises on my shaken knees, only just mist to be found, on the bottom of the broken reservoir.
The grass is fading,
leaves are turning inklike,
darkness is to rise.
I've been there again and again, but was I ever out of there?