Pheonix I creepy glide through the midnight sky, To my nest made of oak sticks, As I fly across the calm air, I slowly make it wild as I pass, My golden wings make the sun seem like a dying torch, As I land on my high nest, The twigs rapidly rustle, My wings smash agents the rough wind, I scream, At the fear of death.
Mi piace
Commento
Condividi
