Like Moths To A Flame


Bashing the pavement, blistering chills run down his spine over self deprecating whimpers. Into the bleak gaping void goes the hunter. The window pressed against the cheek, it wasn’t enough to slaughter them in their beds. Doing more than what was required to find closer in that time of remembrance. The stiff remains held together only by a prolonged breakthrough. Yellow blood seeping through it from exposure to the sun’s rays. Becoming ever so toxic, and smells coming through like sulfur.

Contributor- Chris Ballenger


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