Still You will never know Your worth to me. For one grip of your Palm I’d trade every ounce of gold. I never thought That the nights we sat underneath the stars, and raised our Wine to growing old, side by side, would be nights we would call the “good ol’ days” I find...

Shattered glass on tiled floors might do more damage than good damning the existence of gravity exposing the frugality of human kind granting clarity that all that’s broken can not be fixed. In the wake of attempts to clear chaos once all our hands are remains of blood and muscle, the glass remains broken...