Monday, November 24, 2014

As the Tempest Believes


Oh angel, I hate this sensual pen I always catch it loving illumination the way pressed flowers love to sail in the wind. Never wishing itself beauty because it's never broken, bled, or cried a day in it's whole life. Oh angel, I hate this sensual pen for never drawing back it's silence or saying a for damn thing worth the light of day.


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