poeticjusticedaily's.Art.Blog

Toxic wastes remain on my shoulder and hip, my feeble palms itch, Underneath a straddled year one can find the ribbons on our faces

why must my love life be so black with charcoal and grey, I smile at the tax collectors

At the park of green Rose and wembly now Sparks, people can no longer sprout out and prun as these orchid trees, some years ago we were like penguin’s surfing into those