The DeadThe DeadThe Dead
At night I clutch its skull, its hideous mooning black eyes, that I cannot bring to life. I breathe my warm existence into its mouth Like a flute, but no sound save a dull mourning moan Arises from the heaving of flesh against rigid bone, The remnant heat of its dead brain spilling into my hair, My mouth, perfuming my neck, blinding me. At daybreak, the empty light illuminates
The smooth polished fossil of my lover’s body.
Later it lolls beside me in the car, unable to hear My fevered words, its stare fixed ahead, into a void, Into the future
paper-thinThe following story is a work of fiction. All events and inhabitants are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living, dead, or supernatural, is entirely coincidental. Take my word for it: it's all made up. Never mind what the story says. ACT I; Scene 1paper-thin
This is a true story. I have recorded everything as it happened and have neither added nor removed anything. Curtains up!
We open upon an opened home: imagine an apartment building minus the façade, like a doll-house, its rooms exposed for the divine female from beyond to rea
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"Sarcasm: the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded."
Check my stuff when you have the time
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Yes I want to live near a lake and make swords, but there are things that we just cant have.
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[paula-rosa.com]
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knockin'[die]
knockin'[life]
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Yes I want to live near a lake and make swords, but there are things that we just cant have.
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smaku twego nie znam choć tak często cię mam na końcu języka
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