Things won't happen on their own.
The viciously ripped away feather soars across the sky, taken by the ever changing wind Whipping this way and that, left, right, back, and forth
By Shea-Lea Miller6 years ago in Poets
Riding across the desert sand, the horse's mouth foams white and nostrils flare harshly Hot air suffocating his lungs, each step becoming more arduous than the last