These books we read are just dead tattooed trees
Let us smell their corpses with blissful felicity before displaying them for all to see Follow me through the journey of their darkest adventures Splattered with coffee stains over their tightly bound remains Great plains of undulating declaration Vast prairies of narrative fornication But alas, there is no black dye upon this tree’s skin Has no one written your story yet, Josephine?
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AuthorThe tornado of roses, with all the chaos and less of the beauty.. Archives
December 2017
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