Music might be a bullet
that buries itself in the walls,
a smoking leaden remnant,
a memory made
in the instant it ends—
I wish I could process it,
hold it (metaphorically)
in my heart.
By Heidi Turner
Music might be a bullet
that buries itself in the walls,
a smoking leaden remnant,
a memory made
in the instant it ends—
I wish I could process it,
hold it (metaphorically)
in my heart.
By Heidi Turner