The willows prounouce miraculous void of existence. The tree itself miscommunicates a presence ever fitting of a constant teetering ladder.
Of all things sacred the dirt is the most voilated. Raw, pouring screams desacrate the malignant skies as wolves stand silent.
The viscoius mountain air sends chills through my cock and I miss the warm burn of rye whiskey lighting up my throat with joy.
My passion is muffled by a stark blanket of anxiety waiting to tear apart.
My bones cry for wet cunt. her bloodshot eyes reak of humanity.
Expense is the most misunderstood word in the English language. The shackles of time squeeze the life out of the breathless aging youth.
She was crying. At last I could breath.
Her damp face peeked up in a burst of humility to ask “when?”
Like a butterfly freshly shaken free of a spiders web I replied, “there’s always someday” as I walked away from a piece of my soul.