Tuesday, October 04, 2005

A tender mind...
bruised.

Innocence...
charred.

A childhood...
lost.

2 comments:

Gurdit said...

This reminds me... there are some poems that a poet writes for him/herself, which no one else can understand, unless he/she knows a lot about the poet. :)

Anonymous said...

i'd say i've a vague idea of what u r talking abt..the inevitable..disillusionment..or does it go beyond?