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Blood fell from his skin.
No cuts, no breaks.
The blood just fell away, a vivid crimson mirror across the floor.
Reflecting everything back again, inside: past the pallid muscle, past the starved organs. Past it all, deep inside, where the tender heart-stings stir the line between everything and nothing.
A perfect, lucid circle of life set apart from the body.
Set away, safe.
And the colour drains further from everything, shy to the light, the bloodless atmosphere and the static tension. This was the way - this was the way, before it all came back.
A rush, a painless pulse, and the timid heart, the weakened soul, all bind through again - looping up, twisting back on subconsious resolution.
No trace but the tears on his cheek.
aye
No cuts, no breaks.
The blood just fell away, a vivid crimson mirror across the floor.
Reflecting everything back again, inside: past the pallid muscle, past the starved organs. Past it all, deep inside, where the tender heart-stings stir the line between everything and nothing.
A perfect, lucid circle of life set apart from the body.
Set away, safe.
And the colour drains further from everything, shy to the light, the bloodless atmosphere and the static tension. This was the way - this was the way, before it all came back.
A rush, a painless pulse, and the timid heart, the weakened soul, all bind through again - looping up, twisting back on subconsious resolution.
No trace but the tears on his cheek.
aye
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Blood fell from his skin.
No cuts, no breaks.
The blood just fell away, a vivid crimson mirror across the floor.
Reflecting everything back again, inside: past the pallid muscle, past the starved organs. Past it all, deep inside, where the tender heart-stings stir the line between everything and nothing.
A perfect, lucid circle of life set apart from the body.
Set away, safe.
And the colour drains further from everything, shy to the light, the bloodless atmosphere and the static tension. This was the way - this was the way, before it all came back.
A rush, a painless pulse, and the timid heart, the weakened soul, all bind through again - looping up, twisting back on subconsious resolution.
No trace but the tears on his cheek.
aye
No cuts, no breaks.
The blood just fell away, a vivid crimson mirror across the floor.
Reflecting everything back again, inside: past the pallid muscle, past the starved organs. Past it all, deep inside, where the tender heart-stings stir the line between everything and nothing.
A perfect, lucid circle of life set apart from the body.
Set away, safe.
And the colour drains further from everything, shy to the light, the bloodless atmosphere and the static tension. This was the way - this was the way, before it all came back.
A rush, a painless pulse, and the timid heart, the weakened soul, all bind through again - looping up, twisting back on subconsious resolution.
No trace but the tears on his cheek.
aye
Go away.
Okay?
That sucked almost as much as my gran did during the war effort.
Is this supposed to mean something?
No no [B]no
Forza wrote:
> That sucked almost as much as my gran did during the war effort.
how many ration stamps did she cost?
> That sucked almost as much as my gran did during the war effort.
how many ration stamps did she cost?
Not sure, but she didn't come cheap (pun unintended, honestly), I tell you.
"celebrate the granwhores of world war 2 with this series of decorative plates...."
I've really come to dislike this kind of poetry very, very severely.
I mean, I used to scrawl down stuff like that.
How things have changed.
For the better.
So much better.
I mean, I used to scrawl down stuff like that.
How things have changed.
For the better.
So much better.
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