Every other word is truth. To cipher the weal
take a pen and scratch out eyes. To shade, to cross.
My ghastly toe-headed conspirator, the pale is the knife wiped clean.
The vowels we speak are valves for your sweet breath...
It's a good lil poem inspired by spywork, romance, and always self reflection. Now if that isn't a non-answer, I don't know what is.
Original journal post
here.
Published on May 19, 2017 19:32