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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s