HAMMER AND NAIL

Does not feel like home, does not feel like me, who am I, who am I supposed to be? Where will I find, the cold anvil and coals no flame, where wil I hide from the revolting game? Why is that I end as a nail, under the real hammers death hail.



Poetry by Golem
Read 745 times
Written on 2007-02-20 at 08:23

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