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Jul 2020
Something.

The qualling moldwarp seeps.
Crude and distinguished.
Outcasted.
For and lived full.
Of rot in the crimson wave.
Veined
And insecure.
No high or lowering end.
No result in castled eyes.
Or mothered neutrons of the sick.
Sick.
So.
So.
Sick.
Too sick to rest.
Been gone and too many killed by thought.
By the drowning of the subliminal courage.
By the spinal departure in the sands.
And without welcoming of the azure.
Footprinted only to be pulled into red.
And entombed into onyx.
Never to receive the final wail of grief.


Garrett Johnson.
In the way she moves.
Garrett Johnson
Written by
Garrett Johnson  23/M/In the woods
(23/M/In the woods)   
196
 
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