Murky glides and hungry drafts of howling spells. Conform to the trenches grit your soul dust off those sheep, a distant voice dews in blue holds you close for a few. You whimper and you claw dare to change those fogged up halls. The moon are many some more dark even more sullen ariels dancing kites mulling under a wet roof of stains. Weary eyed tossed hearing ice smears outlandish under red lust outted shot torn, we this our lost.
The skies feel closer, hazing at clouds from above feels easier than loving a man deadly rooted to his own dirt. So little windows become home, packed bags feel warmer and the open door a friend welcoming me home.