There is a basilisk hiding in the crevices of the room, fornicating with the shadows so the darkness can slither into my mind. The breath explodes the revolution’s desire for synapses. I am born into recognition, there are more fastidious contemplations that are not without root, but I am the soot within the smoke that blots out the sun, and we
(
Read more... )
Comments 5
Reply
Reply
You think Poet Laureates are that svelte from EATING all day?
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment