Dirt beneath our nails,
Victorious we all stand,
Terra we defend.
How does it work?
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.
More stories from Victoria Turnbull and writers in Poets and other communities.
Crystalline streams flow, From my sullen eyes they flood, Drown me here in lull.
By Victoria Turnbull3 years ago in Poets
Something sits at the end of my tongue. A memory that is unable to form into words. A distant train bellows with the same frustration that pollutes the whites of my eyes.
By Amanda Abela7 days ago in Poets
I had never experienced so much love and alignment before, before your lips laid on mine, and we only spoke for hours on end through the phone
By Ruhani Khadijahabout 9 hours ago in Poets
The short form of tomorrow is never the whole story. Abbreviations mean nothing when we are born to die and we all are aren't we? Being spoken for before birth is something we're not supposed to remember like some kind of karma after effect. Still here we are spending our lives looking for each other.
By Canuck Scriber Lisa Lachapelle4 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.