ashleynicoleism
All white, pickets reaching towards the sky, fences. Surrounding me. Caging me in. Keeping the others out... These are the functions of fences. Brambles grow up the bars. I paint them white...
None of them were left. Wisps of past lives floated through the smokey breeze as the smell of fire still lingered in the air.
writing since 2010 · 2 entries · 2 days shown up
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whitefencesnonewispspastlivesfloatedsmokeybreezesmellfirelingeredairpicketsreachingtowards