Phantoms have a funny way about mirrors, Don’t they? Vacant eyes are ironic Untouched lips of a semiarid day Sun-kissed skin, ironic Hair abated to dusted gray Dwelling within the brittle space between blackContinue reading
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The Trumpet Man
Behind your ears, in dead of night, cultivates your fears, unearths your fright. Can you hear the trumpet song? Few notes of tune, you follow the sorrow, pitied by moon, won’t last till ‘morrow. TheContinue reading