These Mirrors aren't so old. They beckon me to hang them up
so I can watch them reciprocate the favor.
"Such an ugly fool."
They whisper as they tie the rope I handed them.
Nevermore will these allusions stay to haunt.
Grasping at the thought of warmth. If only I could see where my shell lay; cold, misfortunate like the tide
closes in the North; I wish not once for nothing more.
Slipping slowly into a gorge
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 4:58 PM UTC
The need to hide away
Takes me to a strange place
Less voices crowd the day
fluorescent and obscene
Violent black ink keeps my pace steady in my head
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC