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it beds down between the tough knuckles of tree roots
its made of reticence a choice career
"Moss" Robert B. Shaw
Today's aesthetic is groundcore
Flowers from the Morgue ❀༉
I don't want to call you, I want you to take me to the fields
To a place only you and I can roam
Lay with me, in the spring-drunken sun, let go of this world, let's run
Rot with me under the trees, than watch flowers grow in our spot
For this love doesn't end at decomposition, it'll grow till the world stops
Out of focus