Great brass shudders
In this biting, serpentine winter.
I am a fingertip away from death,
And in one, shivering gasp
Grated against throats like splintering ice,
My soul melts into the thin sunlight
A curling puff of exhaled finality
Rising to the heavens,
But eventually returning to this dust
And frosting your red lips
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Nonsense
الشعرAn infinitely growing collection of poems that are written spur of the moment as a result of whatever phrases or ideas are floating around in my head on a particularly productive day. They will rarely, if at all, make sense. (These poems do not hav...
