His blood embroiled in disorder, runs cold over the lip of the made up construct in your head space. Waking from the incandescent atrophy, broadened in the blues and golds of paperless weight pushed downward onto your chest. These dilute barbarians hiss, into the ears of whole worlds unity. Formidably placed downward, looking at the blissful silence and breaths so pure. This man’s foolishness, can you see the end of the tunnel that swallows you whole. You sift through words of probables, these bring little comfort for they are fables to be discontinued. One hundred words speak fluently at once, bringing in the new Queen of narrow winds. Does these moments bring compassion, or insolence, which is which we do not know.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger