Stark strangers loiter to scavenge thoughts once hid;
both now bustle briskly under this fair poplar
my muse, she blows keenly to rustle up these tired
parchments – not scratched e’er since autumn
closed its eyes to shades of green. Before I woke
under dreaming spires, I wrote a sonnet for you.
Me thinks to keep it safe in heart, away from her prying eyes
and strangers’ judgement, at least until summer comes.
About my life and everything else 🙌 Inst:@nihilnove
by *paige six
... from a silent space
The Broken Cannot Rise Alone...
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As it Comes 
at least till then, Anita.
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At least . Thanks, Frank.
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