My lids plume a dust that weighs like bricks but
Dances as smoke does
And My veins seep the wreckage as it travels through my fingertips and burns away to the tips of my ears, as a toaster would to thread
Yet still a grin, hiding underground,
For many years to come
That would turn the dead
Viciously, lovely again
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 2:27 AM UTC
My lids plume a dust that weighs like bricks but
Dances as smoke does
And My veins seep the wreckage as it travels through my fingertips and burns away to the tips of my ears, as a toaster would to thread
Yet still a grin, hiding underground,
For many years to come
That would turn the dead
Viciously, lovely again
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