Bruises on shoulder, arm, heart, pride, mind.
Pity to like to love to worship to suffer to dark to all-consuming rage and fire and destruction in my eyes and belly.
Hot.
Cold.
Cold.
Cold!
Ice in my blood and brain.
Ruin is to be wrought.
YOU ARE READING
An Experiment In Verbal Cubism
PoetryA WIP collection of poems. I'm trying my hand at alternative forms of poetry rn.
