Ophthalmoi
· One min read
An oak looms in the garden,
My effigy of pain,
I’ve not climbed since May’s rain,
When soaked hands slipped, bones broke, skin ripped,
And I ran inside, alone.
An oak looms in the garden,
My effigy of pain,
I’ve not climbed since May’s rain,
When soaked hands slipped, bones broke, skin ripped,
And I ran inside, alone.