Can sunlight be distilled from wasted years? Can hope be rendered from the detritus of dreams, or peace be found between twisted broken bodies on the battlefield?
Poetry drips from broken oak staves where malcontent has been left to ferment.
Can sunlight be distilled from wasted years? Can hope be rendered from the detritus of dreams, or peace be found between twisted broken bodies on the battlefield?
Poetry drips from broken oak staves where malcontent has been left to ferment.