ecdysiast

of the dead speak nothing unless good

Friday, March 7, 2014

come home

you're delusioning my notions into the clouds;
the junkies on the corners are crying me out on the streets
lithe harnessing your potions are disheartening loud
-er than your name tattooed on the soles of my heat.


 
Posted by Brynna Hall at 6:36 PM
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