Purging this fucking shit.
Red on the ceiling, on the walls. Swirls motion hypnotically through the roof, It is how the clouds make shadows on islands, vitreous imprinted on my brain.
Patches of grey over ice cold sweat,
I produce currents diving under my arrival to pleasure
I wait here on the heavy foots of steps,
come back to me.
YOU ARE READING
Ghosts in my yard
PoetryThis book is dedicated to relationships, human and substance,it's all the same. Pain will leave enough scar tissue for a suit of armor but love, it is out there.
