For sandy hours, they run themselves dry. Seeking th’final poems alluding ‘twards demised fates by calling curtains. ( and ) Hearing m’self cackling against th’white. Being th’blackest light across the tables. Of course, I seek an escape to be someone desirable — my inescapable need to ...
the formatting just seems to add to the impact, i really enjoy the way my eyes end up searching for those final words just for a millisecond more than they would otherwise. it’s got a very closing feel to it
mental flare
uncut bone
plain sierra