whiskey neat in a thumbnail chapel on the edge of the world coated in black honey turning blue for a cause. scribbling on napkins of unkempt self-harm while garnering the empathy of a dead god. praying to the withers of a horsemen for the lack of women on the ranch your stars are sleeping on,
coy chattel herding thoughts of a flume marching against clear skies. slaves to our miracle.
sipping sparks through a straw. we are all the Other one. summering in the ramparts of our descent as we winter less in the sunspot of our acquired tastes- so long, lives the waste of our time till each tick is a boom whispering the egress of a locked door on a cliff of lost sky.
how beautiful my wounds today- As long as the Healing Lies -