Posted by CutZy McCall on

It never leaves, just shifts,
Sometimes it's in the frontal lobe,
     At others, in my throat,
Croaking like a smoking witch,
Dry, inflammable.
Then, horribly erupts in seas so vast 
They cleanse the Earth.
For some reason, you open
With that haunting, wolf-gaze,
Your brush,
Your camera.
I know you know.
(The artist knows all, and why I needed you.)

Share this post

← Older Post Newer Post →

Post a comment

  • EwzhxvLVBYWS

    QosqecgpdPNCHAmz on
  • SdihMFUBOeRbPp

    EQvbFrlMRYVyO on

Leave a comment