"codex" poems
pulling hair, mounting the scathed creature — feelingfulness straddles
the lovelorn fringe of shadows coming
to a feint.
under the canopy of the guava tree
i reminisce dissonance of claims
drunken recall or some ill fortitude
and borderless as it seems,
capturing the eye.
mirage dazzled, writhing on the
darling loam, fisticuff of birds
swarming ecliptic passages
finding a hidden codex somewhere
in archaea — women pulled from ribs
and men wrought out of tears.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 4:20 AM UTC
Struck with the realization of existentialism.
Found the secret to the universe.
Found the cosmic codex then erased it.
Struck with the sudden fury of a divine messenger.
Understood the duality of good and evil.
Recorded the universe of knowledge then misplaced it.
Struck with a wave of indecision.
Solved theoretical physicists struggle with time travel.
Caught the speed of light and then outpaced it.
Struck with the spear of a fallen angel.
Found the devil in my dreams.
Became his nightmare and replaced it.
Apr 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
I missed your drawings
Magic charcoal of beauty
Sense of line and charismatic charm
Perfection of form with tenebrous light
Like segregated sunshine, a codex in Black
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 4:06 PM UTC
a human tool, a drawing pencil, shedding snakeskin cells as
lead from no. 2 pencil
am **** and blood, skin and hairless,
all-to-come-to-go,
return retuned, at their own chosen speed,
gen of regeneration of disrupted oils and heavenly blessings,
morning cracks and orifices, filling and emptying obediently,
to the tidings of the grieving gravity of my moon’s decisions
that govern the lunatic cycle
you may kiss me with all your heart unto a robust welcoming,
scorn with spittle and deem unfit,
I know the difference and it is inconsequential
see me as combustible or flat, airless and empty,
as a new or a two day old leaking birthday balloon, or a haiku
that makes the reader gasp for the reasoning for breathing
think of me as a meme who responds to the touch of
your nippled forefinger, but my powers are unlisted,
therefore unlimited
for I am neither cyber or cypher though aesthetically they
appear as parts of my humanity, a human machine
forever reprogramming to new stimuli sensating,
the temperature of your breath, the many odors of you
as inputs that bear newborn children notions in
my chested gas chambers, the belligerent bellum bellies of my brain
my digital describe in thousands of computers do hide,
but to comprehend the interacting calculations that are
my constancy and my inconsistencies, you must make a tour
if you are awake between midnight and dawn when from
wells the visions, the fluids - the words are drawn
they, the residuals of a man’s *********** with
other humans, kin akin, and the thriving discourse between l,
man and parental gods of invisible powers, that offers insanity
as a viable solution, to cracking the codex human DNA
in the vial labelled Medusa
Who else?
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC
Passage of day over the title on
a brittle page
Someone tore up a
greatest hits of Zen earlier
that year
Your spine bolts after
a windborne ticket
Where else could you be
Not the desert of whisky but of
whisky's prehistory
Distilling the *** act from a codex
Amnesia pressed like specimen
between yourself and your killers
glance over a name in stone
The page a sheet of light
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 1:13 AM UTC
I froze up on the staircase, staring at space much like a jigsaw falling in place. I was high and dry like a lotus flower in bloom. Lost in the fog as I tried to sail to the moon. I was searching for the subterranean homesick alien on Planet Telex to ask him the million dollar question he spoke in codex. So I’ll never find out the answer for the talk show host just like how the spooks won’t give up the ghost.
© Matthew Harlovic
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
Anna
with
bluebird eyes--
Anna with blue
nails about her
black fingers--
Anna with an urge
to drive those blue
nails into my
recently earned cross--
Such a pretty, pretty, pretty
thing,
you should hear her sing--
Such a pretty, pretty, pretty
thing,
you should hear her sing--
Anna
with
bluebird eyes--
Anna with a penchant
for freshly hewn
boys--
Anna with a disdain
for nobody but me--
Such a pretty, pretty, pretty
thing,
you should hear her sing--
Such a pretty, pretty, pretty
thing,
you should hear her sing--
Anna
with
bluebird eyes--
Anna with black fingers,
black skirts, black spine--
Anna with whispers,
with webs,
with cozy refuge in the
dark corners of my mind--
Take my wallet,
let me hear her sing--
Take my wallet,
let me put my picture in her locket--
Take my wallet,
Anna's what I want.
May 26, 2011
May 26, 2011 at 7:26 PM UTC
I'm reading the Codex Gigas,
one hundred and sixty pounds of flesh,
black hairy tongue,
penitent Battenti sponges staining the robe with blood,
stalking through Campania.
Crushed insect nests,
a shiver up the jaw from food not had in too long.
Squashing caterpillars,
the insides squirt from their ketchup-packet bodies
in a spray of slime-neon green.
Pheromone cream drips from your ***** I gag it down,
curdled milk-paste.
When pulling the dress down, one never knows
whether you will get a paper cut,
or a gaping jaw of hairy
life.
We all live like pigs, but need to clean up to appear to live
like everyone else appears to live when we visit them.
You rob me of myself; a teacher
walks into a food bank ashamed and finds his student working there.
My life experiences pile up like broken infant bones,
fragile phalanges of famine,
until all I add up to are decades of
Holodormo,
the Killing Hunger.
You hide in the sea,
I lick your left palm.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 9:59 AM UTC
Look at the stars
Spinning, coursing lightweight
Through the blackness,
Like ice-coated spiders
Floating gentle, softly interweaving
Cloud and hovering nearly near enough
To be captured by your tiny hands.
It seems all so easy
To stay here mentally forever.
Look at the stars
Drifting magnetically, childlike
In their path. Lost and dreamy,
An image separated from a cause;
Heavenly blessings as they drop close enough
To kiss the roses,
Breezily hoping to rest frozen
'Neath the nest of your tired skin;
Lazily watching the night transition
As others must've all those nights before--
When you were too busy to pay them any mind.
These stars map a codex that laughs at you
While you're fixed to the ground and forced to look
beautiful.
These stars sing of the dead. Muses without a voice
Or lives to any longer be lead. The stars dream
Silently of you, patiently nibbling at your breath,
Looking forward to the day they can absorb your
smiling teeth.
The stars hold your spirit and you theirs,
Both constant and unremarkabley dull--
The stars did not ask to be beautiful,
We made them that way. The stars
And you are one, in as much a way as polar opposites
Can be one.
You and the stars, making your fates as you go along...
You and the stars: unintentional twin sisters left astray.
You and the stars: two blind men unravelling an exquiste corpse.
You and the stars: two pawns beating helpless in awe of their sojourn.
You and the stars: complimenting the other like sand does glass.
You and the stars: in awe of each other and the rainwater that
preludes
The moment.
You are the stars, you are the dreamer, you are the observer,
You are the life that has been given life in order to give it back
Sing softly now and lullaby the stars asleep,
Like the son does after growing old for his dying mother,
Like the summer leaves do when their boughs start to snap.
Sing softly for the stars that remind you of whence
Once you were nothing
But a hypnotised lantern
Wandering the endless black.
You and the stars, connect them
even when they appear as aimless
anxious dots.
Form a shape out of the stars; encarve
And embody the flesh of your own constellation.
Nov 14, 2019
Nov 14, 2019 at 11:43 PM UTC
There is no awakening. Outside the cave
Light shadows in the sun, a blinding
Muck veils desolation in the vein-bled,
Good men, stumps of the naked forests,
And bird song drowned by the droning dead,
Ignoble, this is no country for old men.
In the open, all lie freely, lacquered clean
Sunning social graces, shine pornographic,
Know truth is real yet, embalmed by speakers,
Pages, their flame a cross, churning in a mire,
Our glass cities run time mendaciously silent;
The euphony of the untruths, the bent sign.
In Catatonia words are watered but never
Change, sapped of meaning, seasons fall
By the handy green, the spring leaves, tipped
Off balance scaled to autumns teeming news;
The barren shores, breaks, bless the vacuum
Tubes, and pray a curse, fawn the head lamps.
In the homeless land anxious creatures divide.
The concrete utterance is picked to rubble.
The stones ground into sand and we ringing
In delight, moving mandrake, mobile cadavers,
Orbit to satellite are digging babylon down
In the false hood, ****** by the mortar.
The ruin architects mark, fork millions
Of tongues in tributary, as does a great
River from a stony source. The sterling
Feed their stock with tainted food, plants
Regenerate the mangled codex twining-tare;
Throws the babe with baptismal waters.
In the soulless land children peak abandoned,
They fall on temple steps by the golden mean.
We pattern the sky in the bold fabric of pity
And mercy but the strands fade out running;
Our cruel and only kind would rend the stars,
Would fallow Elysium, bleed gold to the vein.
How did we end mortal under the divining
Sun? Down base our provident ways watching?
We wave in fealty to the dominion of spins
And shadow, gussied Gods so proudly made,
Desolate, vain, air escaping to whisper;
We are sailing from Byzantium.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
Black tulips on the marbled floor
have no place here.
They remind others of how we existed
suitable only for that dark journey,
by those deemed more worthy,
under whose azure skies,
only their abodes could shimmer
for we can have no part .
Leaves mottled in their separateness
turn our seasons
into days of lanquidity,
out stretched briars
tear at the stolen codex.
surmising exoteric warnings,
that magpies again steal,
under whose inciting night
can we wade this walkway.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 6:24 PM UTC
There is no awakening. Outside the cave
Light shadows in the sun, a blinding
Muck veils desolation in the vein-bled,
Good men, stumps of the naked forests,
And bird song drowned by the droning dead,
Ignoble, this is no country for old men.
In the open, all lie freely, lacquered clean
Sunning social graces, shine pornographic,
Know truth is real yet, embalmed by speakers,
Pages, their flame a cross, churning in a mire,
Our glass cities run time mendaciously silent;
The euphony of the untruths, the bent sign.
In Catatonia words are watered but never
Change, sapped of meaning, seasons fall
By the handy green, the spring leaves, tipped
Off balance scaled to autumns teeming news;
The barren shores, breaks, bless the vacuum
Tubes, and pray a curse, fawn the head lamps.
In the homeless land anxious creatures divide.
The concrete utterance is picked to rubble.
The stones ground into sand and we ringing
In delight, moving mandrake, mobile cadavers,
Orbit to satellite are digging babylon down
In the false hood, ****** by the mortar.
The ruin architects mark, fork millions
Of tongues in tributary, as does a great
River from a stony source. The sterling
Feed their stock with tainted food, plants
Regenerate the mangled codex twining-tare;
Throws the babe with baptismal waters.
In the soulless land children peak abandoned,
They fall on temple steps by the golden mean.
We pattern the sky in the bold fabric of pity
And mercy but the strands fade out running;
Our cruel and only kind would rend the stars,
Would fallow Elysium, bleed gold to the vein.
How did we end mortal under the divining
Sun? Down base our provident ways watching?
We wave in fealty to the dominion of spins
And shadow, gussied Gods so proudly made,
Desolate, vain, air escaping to whisper;
We are sailing from Byzantium.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
There is no awakening. Outside the cave
Light shadows in the sun, a blinding
Muck veils desolation in the vein-bled,
Good men, stumps of the naked forests,
And bird song drowned by the droning dead,
Ignoble, this is no country for old men.
In the open, all lie freely, lacquered clean
Sunning social graces, shine pornographic,
Know truth is real yet, embalmed by speakers,
Pages, their flame a cross, churning in a mire,
Our glass cities run time mendaciously silent;
The euphony of the untruths, the bent sign.
In Catatonia words are watered but never
Change, sapped of meaning, seasons fall
By the handy green, the spring leaves, tipped
Off balance scaled to autumns teeming news;
The barren shores, breaks, bless the vacuum
Tubes, and pray a curse, fawn the head lamps.
In the homeless land anxious creatures divide.
The concrete utterance is picked to rubble.
The stones ground into sand and we ringing
In delight, moving mandrake, mobile cadavers,
Orbit to satellite are digging babylon down
In the false hood, ****** by the mortar.
The ruin architects mark, fork millions
Of tongues in tributary, as does a great
River from a stony source. The sterling
Feed their stock with tainted food, plants
Regenerate the mangled codex twining-tare;
Throws the babe with baptismal waters.
In the soulless land children peak abandoned,
They fall on temple steps by the golden mean.
We pattern the sky in the bold fabric of pity
And mercy but the strands fade out running;
Our cruel and only kind would rend the stars,
Would fallow Elysium, bleed gold to the vein.
How did we end mortal under the divining
Sun? Down base our provident ways watching?
We wave in fealty to the dominion of spins
And shadow, gussied Gods so proudly made,
Desolate, vain, air escaping to whisper;
We are sailing from Byzantium.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
15 June:
“...its half way in a morning that glistens with slow reminiscences from last night. We find ourselves a respite for the hour, an oasis of sweet temper and our favourite elixir. We sit at the burdened edge; separated by transparency from passing furies; watching with rapt attention and fascination the range of creation displayed before us...We hunt down todays metaphors on clean pages; virginal expanses that congregate with a sublime notion of the art; death; logic; lust and wonder...we span serial glyphs across our vision to prevent a dissolving into the expanse before us; forming borders; signs; structures...Only to be de-constructed again and again; time dissolving; seconds inverting the quantum flux as HereNow paints the Tao over the moment...nothing-everything...we blink in and out; existence define by our presence; the reason and the way forward...delicately; smoothly; succinctly; we pick out secrets from between our worlds; Heartblood squeezed from the cries of angels; the force of supernovas; the very point of transition...again and again the universe spins us. A point – transition-how we create. This secret way. Again and again we play the Fool...again and again we play the Wizard. The tattooed skull of Intimacy grins from the ink on our backs...”
21.8.2010
“...Sunday materialises. Its a smouldering glance across the smoky eternity of a crowded room. A lost sonata barely recognised on faded parchment dusty in a forgotten draw. Its the breeze in the wake of an angels wing. The seconds chip away; each tick a foreign language, the dissonance of grace. We're sitting, hidden, in plain sight, a wayward stop-over; a cafe somewhere on the edge of reason, but the coffees good and the service fast. We watch the people; reading signs and portents in the oblivious expressions; each grin and scowl, each glance, each distant look a codex of requite dreams; a subtle picture puzzle colouring destiny’s reverie. We join the dots. The music over the cafes soundsystem; beats with inevitable consequence. We feel deep into the heart of Journey and Moment...”
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 8:33 AM UTC
codex painter
have your hands rusted
is this world not as vivid
as the one centuries ago
the one
that bore the same tint,
rich in intent to serve,
to devotedly work
head inclined
over the flaming light
and under the celestial stars
pictograms
are what I now reach for
from the vessels tucked behind my ears
from the smell of copper
and the tastes of adobe pots,
simmering with memories,
to the corneas anchoring my vision
because I must have a vision
the "it" becomes what we intend
and I intend "it"
give me your codices
unfold the fibers of the agave plant
and let me paint again
this world
larger
this lifetime kinder
for I have always been a scribe and
a painter
and my heart rejoices in service
to an existence expanding
to meet itself in the eyes of all
who I dare draw
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 12:11 AM UTC
There is no awakening. Outside the cave
Light shadows in the sun, a blinding
Muck veils desolation in the vein-bled,
Good men, stumps of the naked forests,
And bird song drowned by the droning dead,
Ignoble, this is no country for old men.
In the open, all lie freely, lacquered clean
Sunning social graces, shine pornographic,
Know truth is real yet, embalmed by speakers,
Pages, their flame a cross, churning in a mire,
Our glass cities run time mendaciously silent;
The euphony of the untruths, the bent sign.
In Catatonia words are watered but never
Change, sapped of meaning, seasons fall
By the handy green, the spring leaves, tipped
Off balance scaled to autumns teeming news;
The barren shores, breaks, bless the vacuum
Tubes, and pray a curse, fawn the head lamps.
In the homeless land anxious creatures divide.
The concrete utterance is picked to rubble.
The stones ground into sand and we ringing
In delight, moving mandrake, mobile cadavers,
Orbit to satellite are digging babylon down
In the false hood, ****** by the mortar.
The ruin architects mark, fork millions
Of tongues in tributary, as does a great
River from a stony source. The sterling
Feed their stock with tainted food, plants
Regenerate the mangled codex twining-tare;
Throws the babe with baptismal waters.
In the soulless land children peak abandoned,
They fall on temple steps by the golden mean.
We pattern the sky in the bold fabric of pity
And mercy but the strands fade out running;
Our cruel and only kind would rend the stars,
Would fallow Elysium, bleed gold to the vein.
How did we end mortal under the divining
Sun? Down base our provident ways watching?
We wave in fealty to the dominion of spins
And shadow, gussied Gods so proudly made,
Desolate, vain, air escaping to whisper;
We are sailing from Byzantium.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 4:33 PM UTC
There is no awakening. Outside the cave
Light shadows in the sun, a blinding
Muck veils desolation in the vein-bled,
Good men, stumps of the naked forests,
And bird song drowned by the droning dead,
Ignoble, this is no country for old men.
In the open, all lie freely, lacquered clean
Sunning social graces, shine pornographic,
Know truth is real yet, embalmed by speakers,
Pages, their flame a cross, churning in a mire,
Our glass cities run time mendaciously silent;
The euphony of the untruths, the bent sign.
In Catatonia words are watered but never
Change, sapped of meaning, seasons fall
By the handy green, the spring leaves, tipped
Off balance scaled to autumns teeming news;
The barren shores, breaks, bless the vacuum
Tubes, and pray a curse, fawn the head lamps.
In the homeless land anxious creatures divide.
The concrete utterance is picked to rubble.
The stones ground into sand and we ringing
In delight, moving mandrake, mobile cadavers,
Orbit to satellite are digging babylon down
In the false hood, ****** by the mortar.
The ruin architects mark, fork millions
Of tongues in tributary, as does a great
River from a stony source. The sterling
Feed their stock with tainted food, plants
Regenerate the mangled codex twining-tare;
Throws the babe with baptismal waters.
In the soulless land children peak abandoned,
They fall on temple steps by the golden mean.
We pattern the sky in the bold fabric of pity
And mercy but the strands fade out running;
Our cruel and only kind would rend the stars,
Would fallow Elysium, bleed gold to the vein.
How did we end mortal under the divining
Sun? Down base our provident ways watching?
We wave in fealty to the dominion of spins
And shadow, gussied Gods so proudly made,
Desolate, vain, air escaping to whisper;
We are sailing from Byzantium.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
My Dearest Moth,
Is a baptism what I need
Or an official drowning?
I suppose both will suffice
In deep or shallow waters
But will your voice still resound
When my soul's asleep yet again?
Will its essence be able to resist rest?
Or can I count on you to keep me in dreams
Until the perfect moment comes for me to scream
"Wake me up"
Is death so sweet yet so morbid?
Are the fruits made of paper?
Is a giant bird carrying the weight of the world
With its eggs as our souls?
Do we fall and crack open
Destined for Hell
Or does the bird get tired
And drop the heavy burdens
Telling his boss we fell at our will
I'm trying so hard to decipher your codex
But the hardest part is figuring out
Whether or not you want it broken
Just keep singing me to sleep
(I prefer you over ghosts)
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 12:26 AM UTC
I saw all of their pretty faces in a book
One big one
The books that collect dust, reading “clean me” on it’s cover
All the faces in line
Combined and waiting to be exposed
But no one wants to open tomes dust smothered
And for centuries…closed
The codex found it’s way on a trail
To a whole new world
Filled with pixels and combinations defined
But they all died waiting in line
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 9:03 PM UTC
There is no awakening. Outside the cave
Light shadows in the sun, a blinding
Muck veils desolation in the vein-bled,
Good men, stumps of the naked forests,
And bird song drowned by the droning dead,
Ignoble, this is no country for old men.
In the open, all lie freely, lacquered clean
Sunning social graces, shine pornographic,
Know truth is real yet, embalmed by speakers,
Pages, their flame a cross, churning in a mire,
Our glass cities run time mendaciously silent;
The euphony of the untruths, the bent sign.
In Catatonia words are watered but never
Change, sapped of meaning, seasons fall
By the handy green, the spring leaves, tipped
Off balance scaled to autumns teeming news;
The barren shores, breaks, bless the vacuum
Tubes, and pray a curse, fawn the head lamps.
In the homeless land anxious creatures divide.
The concrete utterance is picked to rubble.
The stones ground into sand and we ringing
In delight, moving mandrake, mobile cadavers,
Orbit to satellite are digging babylon down
In the false hood, ****** by the mortar.
The ruin architects mark, fork millions
Of tongues in tributary, as does a great
River from a stony source. The sterling
Feed their stock with tainted food, plants
Regenerate the mangled codex twining-tare;
Throws the babe with baptismal waters.
In the soulless land children peak abandoned,
They fall on temple steps by the golden mean.
We pattern the sky in the bold fabric of pity
And mercy but the strands fade out running;
Our cruel and only kind would rend the stars,
Would fallow Elysium, bleed gold to the vein.
How did we end mortal under the divining
Sun? Down base our provident ways watching?
We wave in fealty to the dominion of spins
And shadow, gussied Gods so proudly made,
Desolate, vain, air escaping to whisper;
We are sailing from Byzantium.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
Along came the roof,
the shelter those who dreamt weak
for we are always dominant
throughout history, as so we thought.
Ours were exceptional
The sway and fway of the legends
Thou it might seem
We were still full of 'weak'
As that oppose our original codex.
Someday, defeat is inevitable
The taste that all is to receive
But our desire is constant
Never to be dimmed
The will to protect what's right
The strength to preserve the might.
If we were to be dictators, forgive us
As that oppose our original codex.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
my wishing well became all washed up
and there’s an empty sound within my brain
and i’m still waiting on something that never came
you talked about her, when i thought it was me
i interpret everything wrong these days
an ancient codex for the hopeless
lost my copy in these dreams
where we’re invincible and inseparable
with bodies so inviting
and sleep when the sun comes up
on the butcher block because i’m more valuable in pieces
and you’ll forever be my biggest weakness
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 7:55 PM UTC
There is no awakening. Outside the cave
Light shadows in the sun, a blinding
Muck veils desolation in the vein-bled,
Good men, stumps of the naked forests,
And bird song drowned by the droning dead,
Ignoble, this is no country for old men.
In the open, all lie freely, lacquered clean
Sunning social graces, shine pornographic,
Know truth is real yet, embalmed by speakers,
Pages, their flame a cross, churning in a mire,
Our glass cities run time mendaciously silent;
The euphony of the untruths, the bent sign.
In Catatonia words are watered but never
Change, sapped of meaning, seasons fall
By the handy green, the spring leaves, tipped
Off balance scaled to autumns teeming news;
The barren shores, breaks, bless the vacuum
Tubes, and pray a curse, fawn the head lamps.
In the homeless land anxious creatures divide.
The concrete utterance is picked to rubble.
The stones ground into sand and we ringing
In delight, moving mandrake, mobile cadavers,
Orbit to satellite are digging babylon down
In the false hood, ****** by the mortar.
The ruin architects mark, fork millions
Of tongues in tributary, as does a great
River from a stony source. The sterling
Feed their stock with tainted food, plants
Regenerate the mangled codex twining-tare;
Throws the babe with baptismal waters.
In the soulless land children peak abandoned,
They fall on temple steps by the golden mean.
We pattern the sky in the bold fabric of pity
And mercy but the strands fade out running;
Our cruel and only kind would rend the stars,
Would fallow Elysium, bleed gold to the vein.
How did we end mortal under the divining
Sun? Down base our provident ways watching?
We wave in fealty to the dominion of spins
And shadow, gussied Gods so proudly made,
Desolate, vain, air escaping to whisper;
We are sailing from Byzantium.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 1:44 PM UTC
Black and ebony wings
of crippled suspension of
-consciousness
enduring into the great extant
-something
while your convoy of words left
in animation of wilted air
dine me your codex
because in your world
this is completion.
© 2014 S.T. Parish Rebel Flower
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC