a writer of sorts
I’m dreaming of a metal cage.
A bloodied angel caught, hanging
over me – unscathed but screaming.
His life rains it’s final hour and . . .
I am trapped and I can only
watch the light from his ashen eyes
pale. I reach to comfort when sharp
blue shouts take control; hopeful, but . . .
|erroneouschoices on Brittle (for Greg)|
|hana on Succotash|
|Will on Nairn|
|Joyce Kopp on Nairn|
|Vikingr | Will Vigar on Lullaby|