she turns to me and asks.
when they bury me,
i reply.
there's a beautiful agony in all of this...
like the million colors that become
one
morning
horizon.
a ritual,
a method,
descending.
an heirloom.
old as the yellowed pages of an antique volume.
NB @ 3:22 PM
4 Comments:
extraordinary!
no, when they bury me, dammit! just kidding. great stuff dude. keep it up.
what does bessemer mean?
it's a proper name.
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