cerenkovskyWhisper

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post-nuclear proserpinethe sky is on fire; / the rest is a series of grays. / wrought iron, rot of ages.

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1.2k

and the fire and the rose are onewith rust-stained hands / and our knees dusted with soot and red carolina clay / we stood among the metal skeletons,

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910

the stillnesswinter is thorns to scratch the skin / reopening old wounds / and bringing night early.

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776

wasted daysin the afternoon of my waking dream / slots of sunlight from in between the blinds wrap around you / and shimmer-shake warm and white to drive away the last vestiges of winter.

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600

transitoryoh, i am an insidious thing; i pretend not to know the implications. / my dreams are troubled again. / grant me fixity;

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598

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