Beads of nostalgia course down a ridged face formed from when the sun burned away the sins of yore. Deep troughs, visible scars from emotions pondered abet the solitary droplet away from the window of the soul.
Author: Nick Saba
I'm a writer who practices ultrasound. Poetry is my passion, and Irony is my best friend. On my free time I take pictures of people's organs to help radiologists make diagnoses.
The Bird's Song 