December 18, 2007


...Gone away, on the edge of the sill, leaning too far the air fell in and the creatures ran from the dirty of winds to a sanctity I lick in sin. Shrivelled, my face dies in the bright with the wicked staining of soiled eyes. Passive I'm not, I grope at my throat where the burden of tempest waits to provoke.....Burn. I fever with the hues of blood, heart beads harnessed to the shards of was. Dangerous as day, the rains evade, i'm drenched in pallor....languid....grey.....

No comments:

Post a Comment