“1… 2… 3” Monika counted until the last one. “There are fifty roses. That’s enough, I…
A broken doll.An empty bed.A missing laughter.
Angeline
50-WORDS
Poetry
tingling taste budscry out for lavish dessertstummy comforter
wicked tame the schismthe pharisaic devoutmark me blasphemouswarn of my stygian deathTHE zealot yields to…
Our bodies are fine tuned instruments pulsating in rhythmic accord, to a beat of frenzied fusion…