TheOrangeSlime

POEM IS NOT MINE. Perhaps you think my lips dissembling, Of virtuous sorrows feign a tale, Then mark my frame with anguish trembling, My hollow eyes and features pale, E’en should my story prove ideal, Too well these wasted limbs declare, My wants at least are not unreal, Then stranger grant the Orphan’s pray’r "Everything will be alright.." the mother whispered into her child's ear. They lay in a broken bed, the mother clutching her dearest son close to her. They both shivered in the cold, without a blanket to warm them. They sweat due to the fever. The son grabbed at his mother's shoulder as she held him. "Mama... I'm s