This isn’t a story for the faint of heart, the enemy at the gates blends into the floor boards with their chained linked shoe prints. Filled with a blinded fowl, the birds flew in unison with the strangest of candor. Blood dripped on the blouse, of the woman for it isn’t a precious faculty and solid trident. They pierced your skin as if it were cold as ice, not penetrating any skull or bones in the wake of motionless candidacy. The plants that were all fluid, they began to decay and wilt of the mention of your endangered willpower. She pears into your soul, with eyes so fiery into antiquated morality. Drenched in sweat, pouring our of your eyelids and unrequited whispers.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger