Monday, September 10, 2007


He sits there with his lion of a heart, burning the dove with its virginal breast bleeding in the mouth, ivory fangs sinking into the flesh deep, piercing something undeniably good, until the breath is escaped. This worn, misshapen hand reaches, unable to release the clenching jaw, its destruction visible from this place, where I am wrapped in bubblegum ideals and false pretenses of hope. Aleathia Drehmer 2007 Published by Wings of Icarus 9/07


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