When lost within my gazing time, Still I stare, though you, you burnt light, bound to be delicate, decadent is thine To be of dust and guitars, did he even fight? Sense from scents familiar, I manifest of land, of root, of dripping, now of hand-me-down The grip of said pencil, you wrote next. Just… Continue reading Whilst in the Fiction of Skeletal Measures
thepoliticsofkendra.com 