 |
| Source: Izabelha |
Mind gone dry,
Mined too many times.
Rocks crumble
From inside the hill.
Nothing left to pick
at
With an non-existent
Pick-axe.
Wind echoes
Through empty
caverns,
Taking wisps of ideas
Leaving dry husks
In which
Only a throbbing sound
Is heard.
Abandoned.
 |
| Source: TACLUDA |
