"miasma" poems
i am much younger than i am
my hair is dark and thick
instead of pruned bald
i am lean and meek
feeling hollow
as if weightless
we are at an airport
with no memory of getting there
i had left my hotel room urgently
in a jacket that is not mine
i can't find my Swedish wife
whom i miss like a panicked child
and my Asian wife whom i've never never met before
and know all to well
is angry
and could care less if i got lost forever
i am going home to my parents house
i remember that they are dead
but we had just spoken
there will be soup and Hors d'oeuvre's
they wait for me
on my way
the streets and boulevards are unfamiliar
yet old hat
and no matter how long i walk
i can never find their house
located somewhere in Brooklyn
on Haze street in San Francisco
i have a business
and retain no idea of what i do
i left my cloths somewhere
and i don't know why
in a locality i cant remember
for a reason that doesn't exist
a beautiful woman smiles offers me ***
she is friends with a girlfriend whom i'm committed too
but do not know and never met
i want to cheat with her
but guilty kisses will ruin everything
so i turn away
murdering desire
in an already anchor-less miasma
i remember a past
my life a continuum
of disjointed vagaries
tears well up
i fear myself a figment
a bodiless revenant
stranded in a fog
sparkles and smoke
incandescence and shrouds
a dis-junctured soul
that clutches memories
like braids of dust
living in the eye of nothing
a labyrinth of shades
lighted by the sun of cognizance
a wretched phantom
transparent husk
living a dark fiction
my grave a womb
i am the dead living
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 10:27 AM UTC
It's dark.
Sounds like a rainstorm and smells like fragrant fire. But the earth underground is thirstier than what sulfur and dead things and various excrements can quench.
And the scent may be a brain tumor,
or even better some drug-induced hallucination;
either way it feels amazing.
I'd just love to slap these stupid feelings
in their pretty faces, I bet that'd also feel
pretty amazing.
a million oscillating fans and still so much heat.
divine metallic miasma .
Is there something pathological about how
I like to see the hurt & desperation & the shock that I cause? Cuz I've been told this type of behavior is 'odd.'
...I don't see it.
I mean,
I do feel remorse out of narcissism
& for my own wants & gains.
It's just a ***** ***** game.
Everyone plays one or the other.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC
.
The waves spilled the rising tide
back into the scattered footprints in the sand
deeply entrenched in life’s mystery,
receding into every breaking wave
A stiff sea breeze put back every grain of sand,
elements of a larger object gathers,
gravity firmed, into the silent shoreline chasms—
a beheld essence washed out to sea
by the fugitive tides and retreating sea-foam
Soon all trodden traces visibly vanish;
unmarked mileposts on a metaphysical pathway
slip away back to a windswept shoreline
and elapsing summer tide
Seabirds glide in slow-motion,
held sway into the shapeless gusts —
as if feathered puppets hovering,
hanging from the rafters
of the burgeoning orange sky
There's an uncommon peace in the renaissance;
effervescent crisp ocean air filling
the indefinable emptiness
marooned within each heartbeat’s echo
Each new breath inhaled, disappearing within
the unhealed hollow of every thing once believed;
fully aware this life is unholdable as time,
yet feeling many things deeply retained
in each passing moment—
slipping away like a handful of sand
sifting through all these hands once held
Presence becoming wreathed in a miasma of stillness,
space that levitates like an unpredictable fog
that seeps into the gnawing voids
of an unsated hunger
harlon rivers ... August 1st, 2018
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 8:34 PM UTC
Criminal
O Criminal
This deceit you leak reeks
Of sour lemons and urination.
Criminal
O Criminal
This pride you flood smells
Of blueberries and broken dreams
Criminal
O Criminal
These miracles you bring leave a miasma
Of grape Faygo and suffering souls
Criminal
O Criminal
The peace I bring leaves an aroma
Of blue raspberry popsicles and lonely depression
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
Ouroboros nartoomid breath
The winds ****** incense
A current washing through us,
The ethereal voice
Morosely sussurant whilst thine
Eyes mirror the cerulean truth of
The morning dews eusophobic miasma;
The rainbows spectrum of colours
Mephitically clasping the soul
Dyeing tristfully the silk of
Kundalinis utopia
Moulding archaic monuments
With the azure clay of
Lustrations evanescent cacodaemon,
Peccantly flying like a flag-
Reveries dreamcatcher idyllically
Reflecting conjured shadows
In the welkin mist.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:14 AM UTC
Against the saturated
Horizon of dawn,
Loitering in the dark timbre
Of emerging consciousness -
Dissipating somnolence
And preemptive despair,
Tacitly adumbrate the
Yawning abyss.
Chastened by the cunning and
Lubricious nihilism,
Igniting fermented provocations,
Silent subterfuge; death,
By mirth - the inane;
Lament of the mundane.
Fallow paradigms, accretions of
The last gasp -
Evaporating empty liturgies
Of suspicion;
Charity and equanimity -
Lost in confinement,
Triumphant avarice bearing
Descendants
Of intransigence;
Wielding imperious
Schemes of orthodoxy.
Pollard fragments of
Silken tapestry,
Miasma draped depression
Abridging;
Conversely,
Permuted flurries of anxiety
Dislodge
The vestiges of meaning
That abide
In brazen equivocation.
Tributaries of dogma reach
Their confluence,
Watershed moment,
Numinous effusion
Streams naked epiphany,
The precarious vision -
A gesture of providence,
Certainty and contingency;
Gratuitously derivative, life
Equals choice.
Verdant branches of intention;
And opportunity the vine,
Live forward -
The pen, my voice,
Piquant conduit pouring,
Exuberant wine.
Footprints found in givenness
Underline,
Penumbrae of my soul;
Mirrored silhouettes,
Thoughts and words engender;
And in verse adorn
Fecund soil, Line after line,
The cosmos altered,
Continuum of permanence -
Artist’s art articulating
Essence of my imagination,
I proliferate, I design
Phrases unique,
Participation mystique.
Words creating world,
The apparatus of infinity
Heidegger, ontologically precise,
Language -
The house of Being,
Ineffable, Promethean
Literary devise -
Envisioning possibility,
And abundance to allow,
I occur
Inhabit
Manifest
Future phenomena
Experienced as now.
©2008 & ©2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 2:02 PM UTC
Empty humans echo when tapped
Ceramic heartbeats crunch through riverside air
BETWEEN IGNORANCE AND WORTHLESSNESS TRAPPED
Their senses vaporous, impaired.
Those which melancholy cannot reach
Across the Styx with curling hands
DO NOT EXIST; THEIR WALLS WERE BREACHED
With icy fingers, buzzing bland.
Empty humans echo when tapped
With icy fingers, buzzing bland
FROM THE NIGHT BREEZE WHICH LAPPED
Across the Styx with curling hands.
Those which melancholy cannot reach,
Their senses vaporous, impaired
ARE A MIASMA ON THE BEACH
Ceramic heartbeats crunch through riverside air.
*Pottery people are all appearance
And their hollows are touched rarely
By their own sentience
While waiting for the ferry--*
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 12:47 PM UTC
The evening's still and quiet
and the katydids abound.
The flag is hanging listlessly
as I listen to their sound.
Desultory the summer air,
as though the world awaits,
"Something evil this way comes."
the foe is at the gates.
A feeling of impending doom
accompanies the air.
Nothing moves.
A stifling presence hovers over there.
Like a blanket, smothering
t'is much too hard to breathe.
And yet, my arms are paralyzed
and sword, I can't unsheathe.
I watch as shadows gather
in miasma up the street.
A harbinger of evil
with an odor, sickly sweet.
I feel it getting nearer
and my heart beats fast with fright.
What imagination ...
on a stifling summer night.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
Dostoyevsky said, “your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.”
I've felt rage seething in my chest for as long as I can remember. I've felt as his talons ripped open my sternum, digging for a place to call home. this rage has nestled deep into my ribcage, devouring my will to survive while carelessly residing within my nightmares.
I've surrendered to this forsaken depression fury has vacated deep in the confines of my irises - despite witnessing myself across grey-tinted glasses; a smoldering storm rippling miasma throughout my body, manipulating my hands into a devout pyromaniac; suffocating every chance to heal.
I've known nothing but bitterness congesting my heart. My dreams were burdened dreadfully with the stench of wrath. it mutilated my arms; burrowing into capillaries, and asphyxiating my habit to vanish.
This incessant sin I've endured has brought me to my knees, existing only to ***** out my ability to be a mortal in an unforgiving universe. I am not a cosmic metaphor, the iron residing underneath my skin has become impenetrable.
I am adorned with stillness while this betrayal has bloomed into a supernova. the things in which I lack have ignited into an endlessly violent explosion -
Atomizing my bones, swirling stardust into a forlorn emptiness.
A world that was held by the unfaltering resistance I persevered against, it has ravaged my memories, my moribund existence trembled; shivering from the growl of the recoil - the remnants of creation kissed abysmal lips within the faraway distance of a boundless abyss, raining tears for the last time as the destruction leaves a life void of meaning.
The last words ever heard in this universe spoke softly as if to lull the existential bereft into a long hiatus -
"This was all for nothing, just as destitute as this vacant nothingness, human life is ill-fated to be star-crossed and powerless."
Sep 25, 2024
Sep 25, 2024 at 6:51 PM UTC
stand(ing) here alone in the dark
like a head of tack pirouetting away
to no music - only acrid scruple
of this being with and not being with,
one is always alone.
space occupies the potteries in
the garden as a steady arm of light
stills in its mouth, a flowering dark.
it is only 3 o'clock in the morning
and the heat clambers the wall of
the vacuously atrabilious moment
of just plainly existing. the slender
harlequin of moon, like an old lover
having its own way with me, a child's
yelp coming home — the hermetic
air crushing the light, slivering it
revealing all the ensconced phantasms
too commonplace like a fork in the road
that i know, or the wayward metropolitan
that teems with a concatenation of roads
and gutters bilious with the squall of day.
a figure moves entering a warm miasma,
receiving the star of aloneness,
vacillating between
place and placelessness
telling this originary of repossessing
the moon with a hand in my hand,
pressing a question of where
have you been all the raging while.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC
it was like waking up to all white fume
or a long washline — masturbatory, feeling something stiff like a hand gliding
over a monsoon of emotions, the affect
jazz and the crunch of fragrance
forever like sandalwood;
on my way to Dumandan, i conjure an inward miasma of thrill, unfurled yesterday, today, or was it before when our eyes were fixated on the passing of things in myriad ways without any relevance to what has died, say wilted,
like a flower going away in closing seasons,
children in hurtling speeds at twilight,
gates welcoming a resounding sound of
rusting hinges,
slow rise of night, its vertical climb,
shadows collapsing on the Hibiscus
and the Poinsettia from the Cordillera,
dreary men taking out ******* throwing
them into metalloid beasts, verdigris
painted, grisly caravan of steel and
worthless scraps —
past neighborhoods thinking about
the simmer of onion and the hustle of
the feral over rooftops, clinking wine bottles undulating full to empty — both
unaware of acumen and only dizzying
ourselves mirroring each other eye
to eye and bridging this unclose-enough
a gap in between,
because you need it,
and i want it, or simply in reverse,
a sidewinding thought through dunes
of afterthought.
because you have to walk my side
of the Earth and I have to meet you
somewhere halfway where we can both
lounge at each other's steady presence
while the flyblown dry air ravishes
the piquant morning, all-telling what
this distance meant from its
peak up to the very last
traceable steps where i found you
and you found me, trilling in the neighborhood like how void
stills itself into all the mood of the Earth:
all moony and
fretting in the disquiet.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
Stone slabs descended down,
forming a staircase straight to hell.
A sea of screaming miasma suffocated
either side of the winding venture.
The light of the world above no longer
registered as darkness swallowed this place.
It seemed that whether forward or back,
this road was infinite.
Finally, after endless time, the monument
of this suffering came into view.
The blackest Obsidian rose beyond
comprehension and without feature.
Voices wailed and tension bloomed
in ominous agony.
And as it called out, a liquid wave of
familiarity poured in and around me.
The door, once unmarked, split down the seam
as I came within the final stretch.
Understanding drowned my mind,
as I pressed my palm against its surface.
Instantly, with a deafening boom,
it swung open on ethereal hinges.
Walking through, in bewildering clarity,
what was one became two.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 8:06 PM UTC
We watched the sun fall down and scrape its knee again, across the horizon.
Effusing amaranth, carmine, and cochineal across polluted vista.
It felt petty to issue guttural laughs, or engage the myofacial crescents beneath its visual lament as the Earth turned its back again.
We watched the sun rise, bruised, tender and shy this morning.
Its muddled contusion obviated by the gauze of fog.
A mottled neophyte -
Luminescent crepuscular rays defied dregs of interstellar debris and cloud.
Aching to kiss your skin -
In stellar cloud nursery, it eschewed the torque of orbit and gravity - eras before verity of your essence.
Humbly settling concentrically about oblate sphere, and gaseous tome.
Latterly - It altered the atmospheric pressure on the other side of the planet a week antecedently, as you clung to your dream lattice, and Earth innately turned oblate nucleus.
Its intent –
A veneration of you.
It bade the atmosphere convey a breeze echoing about your dermis, as it gilded your frame laconically, betwixt shaded steps beneath cloud and arbor.
The sun yelled at me at its pinnacle today,
Pallid bone – molten - miasma of rage
Its core missive garnered inertia – coronal plasma warping ellipsoid factions in inflections of elusive filigree
Pirouetting spicules spattered smelted torrents in the dismal anchorite
Atomic schism – silent but felt
It stoked humidity under shadowed niche - casual vaporous smears evinced no clemency.
Flesh torqued, and seized beneath itself, briny globules shed from puckered pore.
Culminations of sensitive fluid sacs scorched into the shallows of my chassis.
Insignia knit in cellular shrapnel
The sun ignored me today – or perhaps, it was I it.
Enigmatic tenacious resolution – an echo of its gravitational collapse
Inverse thermonuclear fusion
It is not fear in a relationship that keeps you apart, it is neglect of the infinitesimal.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
There is a void outside my window.
Pitch cascading into itself.
No. I am mistaken.
It is just night.
Someone was knocking on my door at some point.
Nipah. Nipah.
Nevermind.
A curious hollow groan runs through the house.
Perhaps a tap is being turned.
Hiss.
A moth catches in a stream. Wet dust clambers for existence, affirmed in the moment of death.
Sometimes it escapes.
There is a glow.
A streetlamp lights up the void, strong enough to reveal a small part of the world, but too weak to remove the grain. The noise of existence.
Blood rushes through vessels. Neurons fire.
Silence is merely the body experiencing itself. The self subverted into the other.
Oh. I have slept through the day.
A train rumbles in the distance, sonorous and bleak.
A bird cries out into the void.
Nothing responds.
A miasma blankets the city.
The choke of lack.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
Emaciated creatures
pace their pens
Erasable features
begin and end
locked in hand
locked by key
Just demand
Dreamless sea
The miasma shrieks
An impulse creeps
Floorboards creak
to disturb your sleep
Now rest well
Empty, undefined
heaven or hell
you decide
May 12, 2025
May 12, 2025 at 5:44 AM UTC
Figures standing in my peripheral
With eyes like the void, paralyzing me
Illusions fade to reality now
Drift into the nightmarish miasma
I thrash to no avail
Fighting to escape their dead gaze
Evading my vision
Silhouettes flicker in the dark
Dancing in the pitch black dead of night
Hallucinations of aberrations
Whispering in the back of my mind
Manifestations of apparitions
Phantoms fabricating
Horror permeating my core
Nocturnal terror
Haunting my soul
Manic visions plaguing
Every fiber of my being
Panicked and screaming
Please God save me
Perchance a dream
Facade of reality
Stuck on repeat
I can't tell the difference
Falling into darkness
Hopeless to escape
Painting a bleak
foreboding dreamscape
Minds eye collapsing to oblivion
This existence consumed by shadows
Trapped in this enigmatic consciousness
My perception fleeting through the night
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
As I sip succulent absinthe
from the mouth of a cyan sea,
I succumb to a seductive grin
and sell my soul to thee.
There it is, a dappled smirk,
on your sinful lips as well,
and now that you are willing,
we have a tangled tale to tell.
Come now my sweet euphoria.
Caress me in your kiss.
Send me a twisted alibi
and wrap me in utter bliss.
I am the tainted murmur,
I am the nimbus quick,
and as one, we are miasma,
to the sickest of the sick.
Your skin a sweet oasis,
my hands a greedy verve,
the sense of touch engulfs us,
and we muster up the nerve.
No couple more visurient,
none filled with more desire,
no passion burning brighter
than that which we perspire.
We slow from our nirvana,
and slumber into mist,
dreaming of how it all began
with one etherial kiss.
By: Kevin Kurt Nepomuceno
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 9:34 PM UTC
Incontinence of Pseudo-emotion has engulfed us from the 3rd grade.
It festered dormant for a little under a decade before it’s vessel popped.
A pore filled with ***** media which dehumanizes and objectives human beings
While making a spectacle and esteem of being promiscuous.
All that Dirt
Lathered in an oil of misdirection. A misunderstanding of affection, empathy and apathy.
Those who contrive the most emotion are perceived as actually possessing the most emotion.
Nothing can be farther from the truth.
This is the death of morality. A birth of Nihilism.
The miasma of the rotting corpse of ethos and emotional connection.
Is one that sits in the stomach and contracts illness not curable due to our understanding.
We have been taught that promiscuity will bring us happiness, and yet it is the most depressing.
Without understanding of that we are incurable from this ugly affliction.
Momentary bursts of relief chafe the most sensitive areas of our skin. Without treatment.
We will be encased in our handmade carapace which will indefinitely block us from emotion.
Luckily someone invented lotion, soft tissues, and silicone.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 11:29 PM UTC
Shiny bricks and skeins of yellow grass
Barely perceptible colours
Hung with liquid haze
Dog **** and thunder
Heavy close and thick
Miasma
Clings to sweat
Running with drizzle
Clings to damp
Drowning the pores of the skin
Making collars clinging sticky
Rubbing and abrasive
In view of the towering flats
The greyly awaiting wait
Standing at the bus stop
Speaking quiet weather talk
In the distantly English way
So safely meaningless
This polite evasion
Ignores their damp dilemma
Soon, as they sit inside the bus
These bodies shall steam
Like cattle in a byre
Kids hang around the shops
Emptying and kicking cans
The younger ones
Run and shout manically
Their elders spit
And swear casually
All hoods and shadows
Asking adults to buy them lager
Because they can't get served at the "offie"
Rain changes nothing here
A bedroom guitar plays
Weakly electric
And the Turneresque sky
Swallows the sound whole and flat
Sophisticated trash
Crying into a cloudy breast
Shaded darkly round
Full and swollen
Grey and sodden
The distant rumbling
Tumbling closer to home
By Phil Roberts
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 10:54 AM UTC
Bells that chime with malcontent
shall toll the sounds of dread.
Whistles cry with detriment;
the hour of death's ahead.
Fields are razed, and valleys hazed;
miasma shall ensue.
Mountains crumble; end of days
rides 'pon the heels of doom.
Death has come for everyone;
no cornerstone unturned.
Putrefy to purify;
with blood, your lakes shall churn.
Sanctity's naught but a dream;
rescind your factions few.
It's all for one to come undone,
and all shall burn with you.
Clouds aflame, for in His name
the sky comes thund'ring down.
And when this land rests in His hand,
He'll take our throne and crown.
Tyrant-force with no remorse;
from out the sea, He'll rise.
He leads His thrall to conquer all,
with fire in His eyes.
Apocalypse shall head the Styx;
the river shall run high.
And to the banks, you stand in ranks
and heed Lord Charon's cry,
"File in, all ye of sin."
His cackles crack the trees.
*"Thy Earth undone, my kingdom come.
Now sunder unto me."*
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
#
The ocean's wave rolls
and beats repeatedly
carving a way into the soul
of this precipice
foaming at the mouth
no, wait....
that's just your tongue
coated in a miasma of
a siren song
you ******* liar
sunbathing on my pyre
the whole town now congregates around
with devil-red
containers of gasoline
while your devil-red
lips act the fire
Only the clever witches
survived the trials
the whole town now dances around
feasting on the lotus petals
that root in the palm of your hand
look at them move
locked in each others hands
chanting
"This will bring peace"
while they nod and agree
"Pour more gasoline"
escapes between those sharp teeth
happiness is a moveable feast
at least your eating
like a queen
go ahead and **** the marrow
out of these innocent bones
tomorrow I will be gone
once I thought of you as Ithaca
now realize that these
are Troy's stones
it's time to sail back home.
#
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 10:03 AM UTC
I feel the friction raising blisters to fingers.
I feel the whispers of the smoke when it lingers,
a siren rifling delirium
and biting to the throat of a genius
who questions how bad miasma hurts the singer.
It's the quintessential fever dream between us
Oh, he's so smart, look at his three page diatribe
describing his rage, he's a machinist
yeah
Go join the dire parades of craven weakness.
Admire reagents calculated to the T,
brewed and created for playfully degrading,
and raising heart rate, lying to you,
and prying from your fingers.
When they ask you why you're dying be facetious.
Just sew the mask on to your face and make it seamless.
Breath it in.
Smell the plastic and bone.
Relax enraptured in what half of us know.
We drink the rumors from a chalice,
sink in fallacies of balance,
humor actuates the patterns,
and its harder to battle the tumor after it's grown.
Then we're just grass on the road,
and we can laugh as we go,
and we can act as if inaction
ain't the crack in the stone.
And we'll be baffled alone.
We'll be the practical applicants
of a graph of a lung,
hung in a school.
Drooling hospital drones.
Stool in a bag on his side.
Try to hide the agony in seeing lagging behind
tank of life on a chain.
Banking his breath on a check,
and when it bounces he dies.
It ends faster than you think it might.
Don't even start.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
his mate fancied himself
Dr. Watson, or even Holmes,
in a past life, but with the name,
Jamsheed Razavizadeh, his friends,
who chopped the proud pronunciation
to J-Razz, laughed at such
a great notion
not Phillip, whose one brother
had drowned only last Hallows Eve,
which made Phillip a believer
in all things
from school, his mates walked the same lane
past the spot, where his mother still lay wreaths
every Monday morn, the vicar giving her
the tired ones each Sabbath
Monday Phillip took the long way home
not wanting to see the flowers, on their own
eve of wilting, a pitiable reminder
fresh things don't last
J-Razz was the only one who walked
the long route with him, his own brother
in the loam near Tehran, drowned himself
by fire, not water
each week, the wreath lay
but a day, and the two from different mothers
would again take the shorter path, where
they would find slight solace in silence,
their journey home often
in merciful miasma
near river's edge
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
Tossing to and fro as if combating a hostile sea/ dark thoughts cloud the inner sanctum of my mind/ the distress, the bitterness, the anguish, the grief, the sadness, the lonliness, the unfathomably lustful pain/ that I face burn with the intensity of the fires of hell that await me/ Guardians of chaos; harvesters of damsels come for me that I drown in their sins/ rip the fabric of my consciousness asunder/ my ***** sing an aria of sorrow, listen to the requiem of the ****** a miasma of death flood my bowels/ decay enters my womb and I plunge deeper into madness/ I'm an error; a fault of life as the demonic servants consume my flesh for what feels like a eternity/ as we desend in to the pit of blasphemy, defilement, pagans, and idol worshippers/ he deprives my spirit of the rightousness, tears it from its mortal bond and it unfurls into a ethereal cloud of emptiness/ being ravaged my capture looks off in the distance as if performing an exhibition/ with every touch I feel dead inside all the while the nightmare watches with a disgustingly grim grin....
This was written for a art history class inspired by "The Nightmare" by Henry Fuseli
Tell me what you think of the interpretation!!
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC