Fire on water,
The hearts smoke
And low rain of her eyes,
What wry lashing they gave,
The currency of night's tender,
My fare to the wandering lands
And makeshift rounds of munitions
Slice and plosive gaze.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
Fire on water,
The hearts smoke
And low rain of her eyes,
What wry lashing they gave,
The currency of night's tender,
My fare to the wandering lands
And makeshift rounds of munitions
Slice and plosive gaze.
