Its trapped in a incandescent, treated by the wounds of shivering blades. We never look back into that hole, the once silver is mindful of weightless atoms. We track backwards in the unknown further out. blank and meaningless glances that are fearful of judgement. Those futures end with a abysmal laughter, they make your period fade once more without a call to your space. Classes with rooms filled with brainless antiques, they first ask questions of the instructor. Asking for them and you shall find, seek and you shall know where you must tread forward in knowledge. Rage turns on the eyeless handmaidens, they simply have no guidance in whirlwinds and a seafront.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger