Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A

Her mind is just an easil blank.
No one there for her to thank.
Her pallet full of memories.
She's sick of having this disease.

In a garden that is full if bloom.
She sits and waits for them to come exhume
The flowers have a fragrant smell.
even as she sits in hell.

Silently the birds chirp on.
As for her she's list her song.
There's no one there to ask her why She allowed her masterpiece to dOnepassmes ran out, she's failed her quest.
Now at last the paint can rest.
As for the art she loved so much.
She passed it down with her paintbrush.
Charlotte 2018