Just hold on

a little longer.

As time gently sweeps,

through our fingers.



Yet hardly touching.

What is this called?

The end is coming.


His nails dug,

beneath her skin.

Playing her softly,

Like old violins.


So much character,

was present within.

Little did she know,

that her music….


Was a sin.


Painting by: Kamille Corry 1966

Posted by:A'Isha Adams

Mind of a frantic poet. Ambition of an entrepreneur. The heart of an old soul.

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