The Flames

Ashes fall like tear drops
From the weeping fire
Coating the ground in a
Field of gray snow of sorrow
In rain, those ash of memory are turned to mud
And are washed away…

By Nocturnal Pulse

I enjoy the thought of death, though I believe it's too good for me. I picture myself die in my mind in cenacle manners. My guardian angel has been charred and demonized due to a series of events. I love poetry, and photography will be my future career.