bird bone parades, long dead languages
countless vulnerabilities of the soul when the encircled flesh is not a dynamite wall, but merely a gateway. parts of valuable chaos ache in their clandestine deterioration, screaming to just surpass the tragedy. and still, sutures refusing to swim inside of anything but disrepair are tearing meat from the bone in an exhausted attempt to build beauty. and i have harvested time and time again, leaving organs in different places and times for the wind to take them where it wants. history weeps, breathes in the reflection of it’s earlier self. the gaping holes pulsating short-comings, the bloodletting, the sacrifices and how.