Eggs
Little yellow
eyes.
Busted.
For someone else’s lips.
Swallowed sight.
Swallowed flight.
Running still.
Like blood.
Across this empty plate.
(http://www.carillonmag.co.uk/)
To Spin Or Not To Spin Static transporter taunts me infinitely across a room of mirrors, reminders of necessity. Cold motivators of perpetu...
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