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Showing posts from September, 2020

In a forest of frosts, in a dawn of cornflowers.

The moon is no door.

Into the red Eye, the cauldron of morning.

Clouds are flowering.

Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.

The dark that was is here.

What would Gordon Freeman do?

i want words to feel like arrows like bullets.

The old house Is full of ghosts, dear ghosts on stair and landing, Ghosts in chamber and hall.

the world’s no good for girls with sugar bones

The heaven of stars bends over me.

Under the twilight skies of Pluto.

And the world did walk itself to the lapping threshold of the waves.

Shot fire to the struck heart that was as tinder

white clouds in a grassy basin.

I might be driven to sell your love for peace.

like tigers stepping on sparrows’ eggs

In the broken darkness.

A brown robe, with threads of gold woven in patterns

by what far edge of the frowning forest...

White as an almond are thy shoulders.