Upon paper wings,
He did mount his throne
Made of gold & jewels.
His treasure a product of the tearduct bleeding money from The State & Shepard.
The spiral of the drain.
The way she whispers the taste of *****
The way skies spell the taste of mildew, mild sun, & the dawn of churning corn silk for the grove tender.
Ashes among & upon the frozen oranges still growing on branches;
Their heart still beating.
Still beating among & amidst the death rattle, death shroud.
Even upon the ****** tassels, hanging from the cloud shaped like a gun.
Icicles like a noose hang from the Beard of The King,
Which are the clouds;
The birds;
The ocean of the sin & spoiled milk.
In my throat.
Invocation of throat.
Upon paper wings they drifted like a swan,
Made of gentle hate & casual love.
As a goat were to smile with her & his heart, so are the wings infinate in their divinity.
"Where am I?"
She asked,
As she
Became the map.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 8:45 PM UTC
Upon paper wings,
He did mount his throne
Made of gold & jewels.
His treasure a product of the tearduct bleeding money from The State & Shepard.
The spiral of the drain.
The way she whispers the taste of *****
The way skies spell the taste of mildew, mild sun, & the dawn of churning corn silk for the grove tender.
Ashes among & upon the frozen oranges still growing on branches;
Their heart still beating.
Still beating among & amidst the death rattle, death shroud.
Even upon the ****** tassels, hanging from the cloud shaped like a gun.
Icicles like a noose hang from the Beard of The King,
Which are the clouds;
The birds;
The ocean of the sin & spoiled milk.
In my throat.
Invocation of throat.
Upon paper wings they drifted like a swan,
Made of gentle hate & casual love.
As a goat were to smile with her & his heart, so are the wings infinate in their divinity.
"Where am I?"
She asked,
As she
Became the map.
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