A process is the weave of the heart
Turns damp to dry; the golden shotStorms in the freezing tomb.
A conk in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm.
A process in the eye promades
The bones of blindness; and the womb
Deys in a death as the follicles leaks out.
2 comments:
This guy needs to get laid.
Wop bop a looma bop a lop bam boom.
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