Canisters of cold line my pantry shelves.
I nourish my soul with frigid ozone,
My stomach boiling and desperate for relief.
Why this internal inferno?
Can I learn to be a tepid meadow of placid terrain?
Canisters of cold line my pantry shelves.
I nourish my soul with frigid ozone,
My stomach boiling and desperate for relief.
Why this internal inferno?
Can I learn to be a tepid meadow of placid terrain?
Miniature Moon 