spirits utter unto her,
voices, voices in the gutter,
dolls with no faces and people
with hair made of fur,
screeches and howls of agony,
they utter,
in the great furnace of wrath,
whispers in the language of the devil, children stutter,
the sacred art's aftermath,
trapped souls in a bottomless pit with a black sky and trees of vivid hues,
a thousand shades of blues,
tossed on people's faces and the dead cruise,
by virtue of her passion, all of them are trapped inside a creature,
their desolation is attached to her just like tattoos,
their misery is fixed on her like a feature.
YOU ARE READING
artbook
Poetry// it's not something as mere as smelling colors and tasting letters, it's something like painting fish in the middle of the sky and drawing dragons in the middle of town. something like having the world as your artbook. \\
