Afternoon sky, here, wears a cordial blue,a few white clouds soft glide 'bove gentle air.Even plane passengers can't smell the stewof far flung blood and sweat in missiles' lair.It is quite weird to seat and brush my hairwhen someone's head, afar, turns red in flame.If I sip my coffee, do I not carefor lives disturbed… Continue reading sunflowers aflame: a decuain*
A Reading Writer 