There`s a raging summer in our photographs,
- an arsonists wet dream.
there`re chunks of our souls
- bit and chewed,
by the calming winds of June.
still hungry for some reason,
licking my lips before the neon light.
my ritual is dormant, but dreaming
of days when we were faces,
of the same artificial god.
So now I eat the animal
so that an animal I should remain.
Fearful of another era,
of your blood
flowing through my veins.
No comments:
Post a Comment